Lost Time
by Amerision
Summary: After his last battle with Voldemort, eighteen year old Harry wakes up in the future. He’s older, next to a wife he never married and working as the Ministry of Magic’s finest expert in solving murders. They tell him that he won, but Harry knows better...
1. Life Anew

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_**Lost Time**_

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Life Anew

**-**

_Acrid smoke burned his throat. _

_He kept running, weaving through the massive trees and thick foliage, blasting through the heavy fauna. Various curses flew by him. Fire erupted into life around him. He jumped through the searing heat, rolling down a steep hill - _

_The shield charm sputtered and flared under the onslaught of deadly magic, collapsing over him. He spent little time with his own curses, running as fast as he could. His target was eluding him!_

"_Stop stalling!" he roared into the darkness, and ahead of him he saw something moving, darting too quickly to see - _

_Death Eaters lay dead on the scorched land, his magic thrumming in his body. He leapt over branches and crashed through the vines. They scratched at his face, but he had eyes only for the area ahead. Dark powers weighed down on his breath, piercing his soul...There would be no more after this. It was the end. _

_He saw the figure hunched over, and prepared to attack - _

_Crimson eyes flared, and a bright flash of magic overtook his vision..._

_---_

Harry didn't realize he was conscious and alive for several moments, blinking what seemed to be sleep out of his eyes. Suppressing a yawn, he immediately sat up, leaving the warm bed he had been resting on.

He looked around, taking in the large, lavishly furnished room. The bed itself was with a canopy and bedposts, a larger, more extravagant version of the one he had spent on during his years at Hogwarts. Beside him lay a sleeping figure with long fair hair, her back to him.

Harry sat confused for several moments before stumbling out of bed. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had been tricked, that Lord Voldemort was nearby, closer to him than ever before. But Harry knew the world around him was not an illusion. It felt much too real to his senses to be a fantasy.

He looked around for some sort of mirror, and found himself in a long hallway. He tried each until he found a bathroom. He stepped in front of it anxiously, and stared at his reflection.

A slightly taller, older version of himself looked back, looking as equally amazed as he. Harry touched his face, brushing against the stubble on his chin, pressing his hands against his cheeks. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, far from the eighteen year old self he was used to.

The feeling of metal on his skin caused him to look at his fingers. A simple wedding band rested on his ring finger. He stepped back into the bedroom and stared at who he surmised was his wife. She seemed familiar, but Harry couldn't place her name.

He began to look through the room, searching for any evidence of where or when he had awoken. It seemed as if someone had given him an aging potion, or had thrown him to the future. With Dumbledore gone, there was only Lord Voldemort who came close to the technical expertise to perform such a feat, if it was at all possible.

But Harry couldn't understand the reasoning behind it. If Voldemort could send him to the future, why didn't he just kill him?

He ventured past the bathroom and the rooms he had already explored, finding the stairs. It led him to a large foyer, where various paintings hung, none of occupants of which he recognized. A corridor to the side of the stairs led to a kitchen. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

In the living room was a roaring fireplace, above which was a granite mantle. On it sat several photographs. He picked one up.

Harry saw himself, not much older than his true age, his arm around a pretty young woman that he recognized as his wife. They smiled at each other and looked at Harry, winking before kissing.

Another showed a wedding, a twenty or so Harry arm in arm around the same woman. Bright blond hair flowing down her shoulders, she looked lovely in bridal gowns, her face slightly fresh, looking at him with all the love in the world. Harry saw himself returning the look, grinning happily. Scores of former DA members, also looking older, cheered in the background, chanting something before clapping wildly.

He couldn't stifle the feeling of envy before feeling foolish, realizing he was jealous of himself – assuming this was real at all.

Behind him was a small glass table, low to the ground. Several books sat on it, along with a pile of letters. He took one into his hands, turning it over to see the address and name.

_Mr. Harry Potter_

_132 Andover Road_

_Ravenglass, Cumbria_

Shooting a brief look to the windows, he saw the ocean close by, along with a small muggle village also resting on the coast to the left.

Not bothering to read it, he picked up several more, each of them largely identical. The last was smaller, a personal letter, addressed to someone other than him.

_Mrs. Hannah Abbot Potter_

He dropped the letter as he heard someone walking in the house, looking up guiltily to see his former Hufflepuff classmate enter the kitchen. She glanced at him with something akin to suspicion before reaching for plates in the cabinets above her.

Harry felt as if he should say something, but couldn't settle on anything beyond a quiet "Good morning." Hannah nodded somewhat but didn't reply.

Leaving her to her duties, Harry darted back upstairs, uncomfortable in her presence. Too many questions rang through his head, and he couldn't think properly. He knew he couldn't afford to seem any different than the Harry she expected. He didn't need any more problems, and for some reason, didn't want to embarrass himself in front of her.

He looked around the house some more, finding more photographs and evidence of years gone by. The year on a recent looking _Daily Prophet_ put Harry eight years into the future, into an entirely new millennium. He was twenty-six.

What had happened to him in that time? What had become of his last battle?

The mere fact that he was alive suggested that he was successful, or at least was able to survive another day. He wondered who had died, which of his friends were left in the world. Had Albus Dumbledore's sacrifice been in vain?

He put to rest his burning curiosity to keep looking. As he returned to the bedroom, he saw robes laid out on the bed, an identification card next to them. A familiar looking wand rested nearby. Shrugging off his nightwear, he slipped into the robes and stuck on the card, his body seemingly moving of its own accord. He didn't even know why he had done so, only having the vague feeling he was supposed to change.

Grabbing his wand, he was struck with a feeling of emptiness. There was something missing that he became profoundly aware of, as if he had lost something he had been with his entire life. He looked around the room, searching. It was something so glaringly obvious, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Giving his person one more look, Harry left the room, his feet taking him back downstairs.

The sound of a fire flaring took him to the fireplace, where he finally saw a face that _hadn't_ changed since he last remembered. It was Nymphadora Tonks, looking much the same as she did when Harry had last seen her, helping the remaining fragments of the Order to make a last stand.

"You haven't aged at all," he blurted, interrupting her greeting. She blinked a bit before smiling, grinning impishly. The fire seemed to crackle excitedly as she spoke.

"Of course I haven't! I'm surprised it took you so long to notice, considering how much we see each other." Her voice dropped, and her floating head tilted forward, as if leaning in to tell a secret. "And I'm being _completely_ honest when I say to you I'm _not_ using my abilities!"

Harry was surprised at the familiarity at which they talked, but quickly resumed paying attention.

"On a less important note," she continued, becoming only slightly more serious, "Is the fact that we need you in _extra_ early today. We found another body like that other one we gave you. We think it's the same person behind it. Both seem to have died without evidence of physical harm from spell damage, which isn't something too many people can do."

Unsure, Harry merely nodded. Tonks kept talking, oblivious to his lack of comprehension. He looked down at the card pinned to his chest, seeing his own face staring back from the picture without emotion. Painfully reminded of his new state, he looked at the text next to it. His name was written, along with some of his physical features. Above it all was the title – Office of Forensics. To its right was the seal of the Ministry of Magic.

"...and you'll probably need to fill out those reports Neville wants. He's been the biggest hardass lately. Probably has a big wand stuck up his - "

Tonks stopped suddenly, her flames dimming as she looked behind Harry. He turned around as well to see Hannah there, leaning against a wall. Dressed in Healer robes, she cut an attractive feature. But it was her face that sent a rush of cold through him, making him feel as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. She merely pressed her lips together and walked out the rear door to the side of the kitchen. Harry walked over, feeling as if he should chase her, but slowed down. The sharp crack of apparition told him she had already disappeared.

Tonks' cough made him turn back to the fireplace. She looked just as embarrassed as he felt, and seemed to want to end the conversation quickly. "Well it's a good thing you're already dressed. Come quickly, I'll be there to meet you in the lobby soon!" And with that, her face vanished from the flame, the fire returning to its bright orange color.

Harry turned back to the now empty house. Things were going far too fast, and he hadn't a clue where it was all going. What had Voldemort done?

He returned to the newspaper he had found upstairs, and scanned through anything that would give him a clue to what had happened. He saw mentions of various people he knew, and even an article praising Professor McGonagall on her smooth handling of Hogwarts for the last decade.

Frustrated, Harry threw it back at the table, looking back at the fireplace. What better place to learn about the comings and goings of the past eight years than the Ministry itself?

Harry stepped into the fire, feeling as if he had done this thousands of times before. Grabbing a bit of floo powder from the mantle, he threw it below him, feeling himself getting sucked into a fiery vortex.

"The Ministry of Magic!"

--

Harry stepped out of the fireplace neatly, surprising himself. He dusted off his robes and stepped aside with practiced ease, a plump witch arriving moments later. She did the same as yet another person came through. Harry could see this happening all around him as the government employees filed in for the day, each arriving on the left hand side of the long, splendid hall. The right, reserved for departures, was far less crowded.

The Ministry had changed little from his last visit nearly eleven years before. The golden sculpture resting on the fountain of the Atrium now depicted several magical creatures walking side by side a wizard and a witch, all of equal height and splendor. The smallest, house elves and even a gnome stood on a rock, propping them to the same level of the humans and centaurs.

Harry followed the throng of people to the front behind the fountain, where they queued up to pass through security. This was one change – Harry distinctly remembered the security desk being only for visitors, normal workers simply passing through the golden gates. The desk had been enlarged and relocated to the front of them to check each and every wizard and witch entering the Ministry.

As he approached, he saw the line dividing into threes, fives, and eventually seven, split up and processed separately. His stomach fell as he saw the workers providing some sort of documentation after their wand was weighed. He rummaged through his pockets, looking around nervously as his fingers found none. There were only three wizards before him, each wearing an identical expression of early-morning grumpiness, a pile of papers and a briefcase in each hand.

Soon it was his turn, and before he could gather the will to simply leave, his feet moved him forward. Harry recognized the messy looking wizard without seeing his face, remembering the peacock-blue robes and perpetually bad shave from his first entrance with Mr. Weasley.

"Wand please," he intoned in a bored voice, not bothering to look up. Harry quickly gave up his wand, dropping into the dirty looking outstretched hand. The wizard placed it on a set of curious scales, ripping off the short piece of paper that came out of the small slit at the base.

"Eleven inches, phoenix feather core, been in use fifteen years. That correct?"

"Yes," Harry said, feeling fifteen again.

"Right. And your papers please?" he said, impaling the slip of parchment on a well-used brass spike. Unlike before, however, he kept the wand in hand, evidently waiting for whatever papers he was looking for.

Before Harry could stammer out an excuse, a flash of pink hair appeared before him, a slim witch grabbing his upper arm and berating the man before him in hushed tones.

"Does he need papers? How _dare_ you ask for his papers? You pay attention to who you're dealing with!"

The man's face purpled, his whiskers adding to the comedic effect. "It don't matter who he is. My job is to punch through every person that comes - " He stopped his angry diatribe as he laid eyes on Harry's forhead, mouth dropping a bit. He closed it quickly before sitting back down, head hung. "My apologies, Mr. Potter – your Department doesn't usually come through here..."

Harry wanted to assure him he wasn't at all angry, but was pushed through by a frazzled Tonks, who pulled him through the checkpoint and past the gates. "Come, come," she said hurriedly, dragging him up the many stairs. "Why did you go through the chump line?" she called back to him, shooting him a grin. Behind her, Harry saw the small sign for the eighth floor, remembering that this was where the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was located.

"I felt like doing something different," he said vaguely, hoping it wasn't too uncharacteristic of him. Harry thought he would struggle to keep up, but managed well, keeping not far behind the energetic and bubbly Auror. His old self would have been panting.

"Different?" she said, rolling her eyes, pushing him out of the stairwell and through a glass double door. On it was stenciled 'DMLE' in bold, intimidating letters, the full name printed below it. As the door opened, Harry could see someone tap the letters with a wand, changing them to another acronym: DMPA – Department of Magical Peacekeeping Affairs, this time in a softer, more friendly style. Tonks caught his eyes and glowered at the mustached, familiar looking man.

"Anthony Goldstein, Greengrass' lackey. He was in your year, I think. His master is on a campaign to 'cleanse the Ministry, and make it a more accepting environment'," she mimed, quickly morphing her face to that of a charismatic middle aged man with dark hair. "Bloody Death Eater sympathizer thinks our department name is too harsh, and our mission to combat dark magic is 'discriminatory'. It's a good thing you never accepted his proposal. I couldn't imagine life with him hovering around."

Harry had a faint idea of the man Tonks was referring to. Though he wasn't a Death Eater when Harry was fighting Voldemort, Greengrass was providing financial and political support, taking Lucius Malfoy's position in the Ministry when he was revealed.

Any further thought was abandoned as Tonks led him to the crowded Auror offices, bumping through the many red robed wizards and witches, dodging the flying memos, and avoiding the almost living stacks of paper piled on each side of the hallways. Harry spied one moving entirely on its own, dumping itself at the feet of an exasperated Michael Corner. He had changed little, with a few new scars and a short, dark beard. He looked up as Harry passed, shooting him a smile and a brief "Hey, Harry!" before turning back to his work.

Harry had little time to respond before behind pulled on further into the offices, Tonks keeping a relentless grip on him. He tried to see where she was going, seeing another stairwell all the way in the back. But before he could read the placard on the door, Tonks tripped on something and crashed to the floor, bringing him down with her. Their fall knocked several passersbys down as well, eliciting several cries of surprise and loud swearing. Harry found himself on top of Tonks, who simply sighed and shot him a brilliant smile, pushing him off playfully.

"Dammit, Nymphadora! My daughter is less than a year old and she _still_ walks better than you!" A voice snarled out. It was accompanied by two strong hands, which pulled Harry and Tonks to their feet. The voice belonged to a shorter, stocky man with thinning brown hair and a perpetual frown. Harry didn't recognize him at first, but it dawned quickly.

"Detective Longbottom," Tonks stammered out, looking suddenly embarrassed. Harry couldn't help a splinter of fear from running through him. It made him feel slightly pathetic, his face already red from the close contact with the shapely Auror. But the more important question of why was he so fearful of his old friend quickly drowned out his other thoughts, and he paid close attention.

Neville frowned, eyes narrowing. "That's Senior Detective to you, Nymphadora," clearly enjoying the use of her hated name. Tonks didn't at all seem angry, too nervous around her superior to properly notice. He turned to Harry, lightening somewhat. "Harry," he said gruffly, "Doing well, I presume? How's Hannah?"

"Well enough." Harry said briefly. Remembering Neville's earlier comment, he continued. "And your wife and daughter?"

"Fine, fine," he waved off. "Listen, Harry - I need you to take a look at this body as soon as possible. Hell, right now. I can't tolerate this evil bastard breathing any longer. It's because of people like this we need to stamp out this plague of dark magic. We need to get these sick fucks before they leave the cradle, burn every slip of paper with a mention of this stuff."

This Neville was something different, Harry realized immediately. The fierce beliefs, the hatred for dark magic – it was as if the Neville he had left behind had been left to ferment and grow, stewing in his small rage against Bellatrix.

"Find out who did this, Harry. I want the report on my desk by Friday." He was about to say something else, but Harry saw his eyes look behind his shoulder, eyebrows furrowing in anger once more. "Excuse me."

With that, Neville pushed away, storming toward Goldstein's direction. The mousy man was taping notices wherever he could find free space, sticking the obnoxious yellow paper on every cubicle. Tonks squinted a bit before scowling, muttering about political correctness. Finally turning back to Harry, she smiled, patting him on the side. "Off you go, Harry. Use that gift of yours and nail this freakshow."

And with that, she sauntered away, leaving a lost Harry behind. Turning around, Harry faced the dark, ominous stairwell. Above the doorway was inscribed the words "Office of Forensics". Giving the busy Aurors one last look, he descended into the shadows, wondering how he was going to bluff his way out of his newest problem.


	2. Never Gone

I don't own Harry Potter

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_**Lost Time**_

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Never Gone

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Harry descended into what seemed to be the depths of the Ministry itself. The stairs cut deep into the earth, and by the time he reached the bottom, he couldn't see where he had entered from. It wasn't as deep as the Department of Mysteries, but was certainly far off from the rest of the divisions, sitting off somewhat to the side in addition to being on one of the lowest floors. It reminded him somewhat of the vaults in Gringotts.

He went through several more doors before arriving in a fairly pleasant office. Another familiar person was sitting behind the desk, scribbling away on some forms. He looked up and smiled, confirming his suspicions.

"Harry!" Colin Creevy exclaimed. "Good morning, sir! I have the usual on your desk." He grinned unblinkingly, bobbing his head. He had changed the most of everyone yet, growing spectacularly in height and sporting longish hair. Despite it all, Harry was reminded of just how much he detested the naïve Gryffindor. His personality was still as grating as ever.

"Thanks Colin." he managed, giving the man a faint smile, "Is there anything I should know for today? Detective Longbottom said there's a body coming in." He tried to sound as informed and collected as possible, using the information he had absorbed from his conversations.

"Right you are!" Colin chimed, "The Aurors are bringing in the body of one..." and here he paused, furrowing his eyebrows before looking at his papers, "...Alan Stranger. Deputy Commissioner of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad." He stopped again, procuring from his robes one of the bright yellow sheets Harry had seen Goldstein passing out. "My mistake, according to this, his department is now called the Home Office."

"What did he do?" Harry asked, desperate for any knowledge he could put to use. At the very least, he needed something relevant to talk about in case anyone wanted to talk to him.

"He retired from the Hit-Wizard Squads several years ago, and was relegated to administrative duties. Despite this, Judy tells me that he all but controlled the entire station of Magical Law Enforcers as well as the Hit-Wizards squads. You probably know more of that than I do. The Commissioner of Hit-Wizards spends most of his time in the Wizengamot, tied up in court cases and the like. You're lucky you don't have to do all that work."

"Oh yes, very lucky," Harry replied. He assumed 'Judy' was a friend or close relation of Colin's. There couldn't be anyone who would ever marry the excitable wizard. Harry wasn't at all surprised that the same boy who worshiped him throughout Hogwarts ended up as his direct assistant.

"Though, I don't think you'd mind if Daphne switched places with you. You don't seem to like it down here all that much." Colin mused. "Speaking of the lord and master, she'll be around soon. She sent a memo, saying she was meeting her father. Probably a PPB meeting."

Harry didn't ask what 'PPB' was, but resolved to find out himself. "Probably." he concurred. "I have to go though, before she comes back and sees me loitering around." Excusing himself, he went off to explore the office further.

The door past the entrance room lead to a small corridor that opened to a large opening. The ceiling was low and fitted with cold, white flames to illuminate the many steel tables that were spread across the room. All were set parallel to each other, each with a small workbench equipped with bladed instruments and strange potions. The tiled floor was dark and stained, more so around the spotless tables.

The table at the far end was occupied by a motionless body covered in white muslin. Various splotches of red were present in the fabric in the fabric. Harry moved toward what he recalled was the first body the unknown killer had left behind. He reached for the small clipboard on the workbench, flipping through the notes.

Pages of his own writing appeared before him, each signed by his initials, all with his messy scrawl. He found the name of the _subject_, as he reminded himself, having resolved to get into the mind of this future Harry Potter. The dead man's name was Alric Risengeit, the son of prominent German family that had moved to Britain several decades ago. He was a notable member of an organization named simply the PNRP. There were more personal details, but he skipped over them to find if his older self had come up with any ideas. He was disappointed to see the last page, the one dedicated to "Cause of Death", covered with a large question mark.

Harry placed the clipboard back and looked around some more, ruffling through papers and charts before finding another door. He went through it and found a small, tidy office. In in the middle sat a large, wooden desk, with a comfortable-looking chair and a window behind it. Harry knew it was artificial, but it lent a small escape to his otherwise depressing, dark workplace.

Looking to make sure Colin wasn't close by, he made his way to the chair, sitting himself down with a measure of guilt. He went through his drawers, finding quills, ink, dissection tools, and even a placard with his name on it -

-

_Dr. Harry James Potter_

_-_

_Chief Forensic Officer_

_of the_

_British Ministry of Magic_

_-_

The prefix before his name caught his eye, and he sat looking at his name and position with slight awe. His older self was clearly accomplished, worth something other than his defeat of Voldemort. With a slight swell of pride, he placed the placard on his desk, practicing his new formal name in his head. It was ridiculous, but Harry felt as if it were something more important than the prophecy and all it entailed. This was not something thrust onto him – he had pursued it and achieved something great all on his own.

Spinning around, he found several framed parchments on the wall behind the desk. Graduation certificates, merit awards, and honors hung visibly behind him, bestowing upon the office a sense of legitimacy that Harry suddenly remembered he _didn't_ deserve.

"Harry!"

The growing dread in his stomach ballooned at the call, and he instinctively grasped his wand. No reassuring warmth flowed through his fingers. He turned and stood, looking through the door to see the same dark haired woman he had seen in the Ministry atrium earlier. She wore form-fitting robes and had alluring eyes, a shade of violet that Harry had seen on only one other.

"How_wonderful_ to see you here so early!" She said smiling, leaning against the inside of his door. Before he could reply, she continued, entering the office. "Though, I have to say you look lost. Are you feeling well?"

"Just tired." he replied, shuffling through some papers. Fearing he would somehow give himself away, Harry kept his eyes on the various charts in his hands, avoiding looking directly back at her. He needed to show familiarity, not embarrassment. "I had a long night."

"A long night? At the Potter household?" She laughed, and Harry had the feeling he was being ridiculed in some way. "Hannah doesn't seem much for pillow talk." The slight trace of smugness on her face made something boil in Harry's blood, and he felt as if he needed to do something on behalf of his..._wife._

But Harry restrained himself, deciding to dwell on more important issues – like finding out who the woman was. The violet eyes were a clue, and he strained to remember. The face, her shining black hair – she seemed like a younger Bellatrix Black. But there were only a few surviving families related to that dead house, the Malfoys and Andromeda Tonks being the closest. There were several related through Sirius' grandmother, of which the Longbottoms and Greengrasses were most prominent.

The latter name rang in his mind, and he suddenly recalled a wily, black haired Slytherin girl in his own year, quiet and largely detached from Malfoy – Daphne Greengrass. Colin's offhand comment of a meeting suddenly made sense. Daphne Greengrass was meeting her father, the PPB figure. Tonk's warning against him suddenly made Harry even more wary around the woman, more so as he recalled Colin mentioning her as their superior.

Harry decided to take attention away from himself, to shift it away to other things. "So are we getting a new name too? The DMLE and the MLES both got splendid new acronyms."

"My father said we're too small, so he's not going to implement a change. It isn't as if the office is in the public eye. I don't think we could, either. Neville and his swashbuckling "People's National Reform Party" would give us even more trouble than they already are. The bloody fascists like to think they represent the people. They're just a fearmongering bunch of irrational fools."

Harry grinned inwardly at her slip of information. So the PNRP was a political party headed or at least controlled by his old friend Neville. "I'm sure he doesn't think well of you, either." he said with a smile.

"Of course he doesn't," she sighed, giving Harry a demure, helpless look, "He'd like nothing better than to throw our entire family into Azkaban. Without trial. He's a regular Barty Crouch – he even has the silly toothbrush mustache and the inflated ego." Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the image of Neville in Hitler garb.

"But don't tell him I said that," she said, her eyes holding all of his attention, "I report to him, but you report to me." She reached into a folder she had been carrying and pulled out a stack of papers similar to the one Colin had read through. "But enough of that. The Aurors are having some trouble in their initial processing, so it'll be some time until you get the new body. Familiarize yourself with his information and be ready to work as soon as it comes in."

"I'll do that." Harry said, and he felt the dread return.

"Good. Now I have to leave. Be a good boy while I see to this new murder scene we've found." Leaning forward, she placed a quick kiss on Harry's cheek before disappearing out his door. He stared after her, wondering what had happened. He fought something inside and looked at the band around his ring finger. What kind of man had his older self been?

Mind running wild, Harry turned to the papers he had been given. On top was the picture of Alan Stranger posing for his identity card. He glared at Harry, jaw set in place. The image seemed to see right through his facade and accuse him of fraud. Harry didn't have to read through the file to know his newest subject had been a fantastic Hit-Wizard.

Behind the initial biography, Harry found information about the man's activities, his favorite dwellings, and other data he was sure his older self could make sense of. He dropped the papers back and leaned back into his chair. What had he lost? Years of his life had gone by, gone in a mere fraction of a second. He was eight years older, eight years closer to death. Eight years had been _stolen_ from him.

He angrily drew his wand, casting a spell to close and lock the door. The intent and words rang through his mind, but nothing happened. His wand sat dead in his hands, none of the tingling through his arms that he had become so accustomed to – so dependent on. He tried again, but felt nothing.

"_Eclusio._" He said out loud. A small spark of light flew from his wand, disappearing into nothingness before reaching its target. Panic seized him and he tried again and again, managing nothing but the smallest of quivers from the wooden door. He moved to something simpler - "_Lumos!"_A faint, pitiful light shone from his wandtip, flickering pathetically before fading away. No amount of repetition could allow him to keep it for more than several seconds.

Nothing but the most simple of spells worked correctly, all of them either failing or eliciting no response at all. What had happened to his magic? He thought about his time so far – his magic had been present when he had engaged Voldemort, and he hadn't attempted magic since. Was his older self a squib?

No amount of rationality could calm the frenzied terror that gripped him. He was without magic! His life was intertwined with the force. His heritage, his escape from the Dursleys – all were because of this gift he had been given. He strained to think of a reason. Perhaps it was only temporary? But something far worse occurred to him still – was this Voldemort's doing? He had still hadn't received answers on whether he had prevailed in his last battle, but it was entirely possible that the Dark Lord would take away the possession that he valued most – that they both valued, and owed their escape from wretchedness to – from his final foe.

--

"Dr. Potter!" Colin's voice rang Harry out of his thoughts. He looked up, putting aside the newspaper he had asked his assistant to retrieve. The paper joined an empty desk, devoid of any sort of sign indicating human inhabitance. There was nothing personal, no pictures of his wife, or even his friends from the Order. It was a far cry from Mr. Weasley's warm, inviting desk in The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. What had become of the smiling young man arm in arm with lovely wife, surrounded by friends?

"Yes, Colin?" He replied, shaking away the slight reverie. He grimacing inwardly when he saw the suddenly proud look on the man's face. Apparently his older self did not call the younger wizard by his first name.

"The body is here. Auror Williams needs a signature from you for a release." He waved a long document in front of him. "I'll just give this to him."

Harry furrowed his brows. "What? Isn't that for me to sign?"

Colin looked uncomfortable, and he looked at him slightly confused. "But you can't...without... You asked me to do them from now on, remember?" Harry's eyes fell back to the wand lying uselessly on his desk and gathered that the signature needed some sort of magic to seal. Colin knew.

"Right, of course. Go ahead, Mr. Creevy." He said quickly, dismissing him. Harry's face had turned red, and he wished the man would simply leave instead of gawk. He looked down to his papers, pointedly ignoring the wizard as he grasped Harry's wand and performed a quick spell on a signature that bore his name. Harry saw with slight anger the accuracy of which the messy scrawl of his name had been reproduced. This was not an infrequent, or even a recent occurrence. It was obvious Colin had been doing this for quite some time.

Harry's assistant looked at him tentatively before leaving the room without a word, dropping his wand back on his desk. He waited until he heard the slight squeak of a gurney being pushed into the examination room before he left_ his_ office, seeing Colin scurry out to the entrance room out of the corner of his eye.


	3. Tides of Conflict

I don't own Harry Potter

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_**Lost Time**_

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Tides of Conflict

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The naked, dead body of Alan Stranger looked poised and tense, ready to fight even in death to keep his secrets. The premature scowl lines etched onto the face told a story of constant conflict, the scars across his body proving most of them were deadly.

Harry stared at the cold corpse for several seconds before reaching for the clipboard from his previous assignment. He was oddly collected considering the fact that he was all alone in stained, old examination room with two dead bodies. He had killed before, ended lives in many matter of ways, but it was entirely something different to be so indifferent to death outside of battle – a side of him that he didn't at all remember having. What kind of man did it take to dwell in such conditions for hours at a time, surrounded by death and the stench of blood, without even the slightest feeling?

How much of his older self still inhabited this body? The fact that a younger mind was controlling this older body raised the question of the whereabouts of its true owner. Had it been destroyed by his coming? Was it locked away somewhere in the depths of his consciousness? As what was quickly becoming common, questions dominated his every musing.

He looked through the extensive notes the elder Harry Potter had taken for the other body. There were mentions of many tests and ideas, but overall it seemed incomplete. Most of the techniques described were beyond him, the rest things he had read or heard of through conversations. Cutting curses, for example, tended to leave some sort of magical residue that could point toward certain types of wands when subjected to a Pollux test. His subject did not have any gaping wounds, however, making that particular technique useless.

After some thought, Harry decided on a general physical examination first. The true Dr. Potter had done the same. He went through the checklist completed on the first subject, diligently checking every area mentioned. There were severals bruises around the neck, along with a larger, purplish one behind the knee. Several other signs of a physical struggle became apparent. The assailant had presumably kicked the back of Stranger's knee after a long struggle and gotten him into some sort of chokehold.

He rifled through the notes again – 'Check for Signs of Strangulation' seemed the most relevant. The various qualities of a strangled person were listed below it. Harry first lifted an eyelid, checking for burst vessels. They appeared fine. Several of the other symptoms weren't present either, ranging from blue skin to deflated lungs. Harry amateurishly checked the last with a quick pump of the chest, finding abundant air leaving the subject's mouth.

The last, however, caught his eye - clenched hands stuck in _rigor mortis_. This was the telltale sign of a victim in close proximity of the murderer immediately before death, reaching helplessly for some sort of aid, trying to fend off an attack or struggling to break free. But if the subject hadn't suffered strangulation or wasn't outright beaten to death, only some sort of magic remained as the cause of death.

Here he brandished his wand, staring at it thoughtfully. Charms that resulted in some sort of physical change almost always were more difficult to cast than those focused on diagnostics or detections. Dr. Harry Potter had just enough magic to do his work, but never enough to cast anything beyond a cleaning spell. It had to be infuriating – it _was_ infuriating. Harry kept remembering not to feel sorry for his older self. They were one now, and the man's problems were _his_ problems as well. The injustice was overwhelming, so burdensome and unreal Harry couldn't bear to even think of it.

Angrily, Harry stalked over to the far side of the room, where an entire wall of photographs sat behind a counter. A surprisingly modern looking camera sat on it. The notes from the first subject included several photos. It was probably protocol, and something Harry could at least do. The magic based sections of the examination was something he'd approach later.

Harry briefly studied the pictures, finding each taken from a specific angle. A slight movement suddenly caught his eye, and he looked to see one of the photos depicting a body that seemed to twitch and move, wrangling around slightly as a result of some inner turmoil. Harry looked back at his own subjects carefully before continuing his watch. As he looked on, he saw all of them doing the same in various degrees. Some of the pictures had Colin or Daphne in the background, neither of which seemed to react at all to dead people moving.

He recalled something of this sort from Colin in Hogwarts. What is captured by a camera is not necessarily what is shown in picture. The boy was rambling on about photography when he had mentioned the fact that muggles couldn't appear moving in magical photos. Magic bestowed life to the figures, caught in the shutter and placed upon the film. Dead wizards still moved in death when photographed, ever so slightly and surely as the force drained slowly away.

Harry suddenly felt the morbidity of the entire affair and wanted to leave. He quickly took the shots from the same perspectives of the first set, noting all the specific positions depicted. Depositing the camera back in its place, Harry headed for the stairs to explore the Ministry.

--

Nobody gave him so much of a second glance as he came out of the stairwell and exited the newly named Department of Magical Peacekeeping Affairs. He found a kiosk near the lift with a map and studied it for several moments, looking for areas of interest. The cafeteria was above the atrium on the second floor, and doubtless where countless conversations took place throughout the day. It was nearing noon, and it would look odd if he didn't show up.

He joined the masses of people heading there for food, feeling somewhat safe in obscurity. A few wizards and witches he didn't recognize called his name from afar, but none felt up to pushing their way through to meet him.

A large passage took them to a massive room that made Hogwart's great hall pale in comparison. What seemed to be thousands of wizards – more than he'd seen in his entire life with the exception of the Quidditch World Cup – all sat down in long, clean tables with a plate and awaited the appearance of food. Harry stood in line and eventually took a plate, feeling slightly lost and alone as he looked for someplace to sit.

He should have known better, however, as several people motioned him closer. Tonks was a natural choice, but she was nowhere to be found. He settled on his boss, who he decided would be the worst person to snub.

"Hello, again." She remarked, looking at him with her strangely appealing eyes. "Any progress on Stranger?" Harry's mouth went dry. He made to respond, but was interrupted by the sudden deposit of food on his plate.   
"Never mind that," She said suddenly, getting up, "Let's leave. I don't want to be here." Harry followed her dumbly, feeling slightly stupid and unsure. He hated being such a lapdog, but he didn't want to cause any trouble. There was nothing to be gained in being alone anyway.

"Where are we going?" He finally said, pulling up to her side.

She sent him a brief look of annoyance, but Harry could tell it wasn't directed at him. "My father's office. I can't believe he gets his food in his office. We have to come all the way upstairs to get food and mingle with the idiots that make up most of the Ministry."

Harry tried to look sympathetic, but he was too detached to really care. He could see his older self getting worked up over it as well. His vague image of the mysterious man was somewhat self-assured, slightly haughty, and more intelligent than Harry could ever imagine himself being. His gaze dropped again to the wedding band on his finger, thoughts drifting off to his wife.

What had the man done to her to make her so angry at him? He dreaded going _home_, as foreign as the word sounded to him, to the person that undoubtedly knew him better than any other in this new world. He resolved to try to appease her in the very least. Nothing good could come of more conflict, especially with his lack of ability to defend himself with magic.

The walk to the office was short, and Harry soon found himself looking at larger and larger offices, with prettier secretaries surrounded by more ornate décor. Daphne headed toward one such office, ignoring the protesting young woman sitting on the desk before it. Harry apologetically followed her, and entered the office.

An older, charismatic man sat behind the large, expensive looking desk. Harry looked at the placard before it. Paul Greengrass, Senior Undersecretary of the Ministry of Magic. It was the same position Umbridge had held years ago, before Harry had seen her dragged off to Azkaban when Fudge and his administration went under investigation.

"Hello, dear!" Paul said with a smile, getting up and kissing his daughter's cheek. He then turned to Harry, sizing him up with a grin and grabbed his hand in a firm handshake. "And you've brought Mr. Potter. Have you reconsidered my offer?"

Harry was saved by Daphne, who coughed and turned red. "No, father. Nothing of the sort. We're just here to escape the usual morons at lunch." Paul looked put down for a moment before sitting back down, ushering them to relax and make themselves comfortable. He conjured two chairs for them with a flick of his wand, earning a raised eyebrow from Harry.

Paul didn't seem to notice, and he quickly began devouring his own food. "How are you managing, Harry? I've heard the Aurors are finding bodies everywhere. Some new serial killer, it seems."

"That's right. Longbottom just dumped another one on him," Daphne answered for him, "A nasty time too, with all the other officers out in the Isle of Man for that nasty business with that crazy muggleborn."

Paul scowled somewhat. "And they say purebloods are all dark fanatics, or that dark magic is the scourge of the world. The pendulum has swung far in the other direction in recent years. What do you think, Harry?"

"I'd...say that you're correct." he said, trying to conform. Disagreeing meant debate, and debating was something he wasn't equipped to handle. More confidently, he added, "Alastor Moody himself, a pureblood, used a few dark curses to protect the wizarding world against those who _abused_ it."

"Well put, Harry," Paul said, looking pleased, "I wish people would see it that way. They never listen to me. They say I'm a dark wizard, a pureblood, and that because my family has generations of wizards before me, I am obviously biased and lying. You could do so much – common sense coming from someone respected of your caliber..."

"...Someone who defeated the Dark Lord himself." Daphne said, eyeing Harry. Paul had an odd look directed at Daphne, but soon joined in.

"Join the Populist Party, Harry. The PPB needs someone upstanding like you. Those fanatics in the PNRP can't be allowed to take over the Ministry. They'd throw anyone who even thinks of using dark magic, even for good, in prison. They were _angry_ when I pushed the Minister to close Azkaban!"

"What?" Harry couldn't stop the sudden outburst. Azkaban had been a fixture of Wizarding Britain for longer than Hogwarts. The closure of such an iconic location, a place synonymous with hell and punishment, the very wrath of the Wizengamot, was unthinkable.

"Yes," Paul said, looking fierce, "Longbottom wanted my head. He gathered up a bunch of his ruthless cronies in the DMLE and nearly managed to petition the last Minister to fire me. Luckily he knew better, and when his replacement came around, he had enough sense to listen and shut down the damn place. From then on, Longbottom formed the _People's_ National Reform Party to stamp us out. They don't even have a presence in the polls, and don't represent Wizarding Britain at all. It's just a band of lunatic Aurors and ex-Aurors with hysterical mothers fearing another war."

Harry found himself wondering what exactly had happened to Neville. He knew the boy he knew no longer existed, but how had he become this? An influential, if not outright leader of a political party that endorsed the existence of Azkaban?

"We understand if you don't want to get into entangling alliances, but give it a thought." Paul said gently. "All this outrage over my decision to rename certain departments is just to soften up the image of the Ministry. Many citizens are becoming concerned with the aggressiveness the Ministry has been showing lately, especially the law enforcement arms. I'm just trying to soothe some tensions."

"I'll give it a thought." Harry said. He didn't want to commit, but he didn't want Paul's disapproval either. The man exuded a sense of purpose and righteousness he didn't want to stand in the way of.

"That's good." Paul smiled. "If you ever need anything or have any questions, just talk to Daphne here. Or, if you're close, just stop by my office anytime. I'm always up to getting away from all this interoffice politics that comes with the job."

--

Harry left the office and parted ways with Daphne, who reminded him somewhat mock sternly to do some more work on the bodies. He grudgingly realized that he had to keep appearances and actually _do_ something. People expected him to pull off some sort of miracle, to break the case. He resolved to do some more research on himself, an odd prospect that made him feel somewhat like a voyeur.

He entered the lift, now empty with the majority of people at their desks, and pressed for the third level. The doors were about to close when a single hand stopped it. The doors shot open again, revealing a red faced Longbottom. Harry made to greet him before he was thrown into the wall of the lift, the large, powerful arms of his old friend pressing him painfully under his throat. The lift doors closed moments later, leaving them alone.

"You didn't think I'd notice, Harry?" Neville spat at him, tilting his said to the side, eyes boring into his own. "I'm watching that fucking Death Eater every moment of his existence. There isn't a single thing he does that I don't know. So imagine my surprise when washed up hero Harry Potter shows up in his office, hanging off his new fuckbuddy. What are you trying to do? You in something I should know about?"

Harry's shock gave way to similar anger, and he struggled to come free. "It's nothing, Neville. What the fuck is wrong with you? Get off - "

"No, you _listen_ to me. That scum is behind all this. He's a fucking pureblood supremest bent on power. He just wants me out of the candidacy for Minister. Paul Greengrass is a dark representative for all the evil in this country. He won't be happy 'till he gets to throw around dark magic as he likes, getting his rocks off as he and his whore of a daughter torture muggleborns. So what does that make you? Their lapdog? Are you gonna cover for them now? I know they're behind these murders, Harry. I'd hate to have to put you down because you're consorting with the wrong side."

"All I hear is that you're a bigoted prick," Harry gasped out, uncaring, "No better than those you hunt." Neville scowled and slugged a heavy fist into his stomach. Harry fell hard as the wind was knocked out of him.

"Yeah? I'm a bigot for hating those dark bastards. I see. But you must be so much better. You cheat on your wife with every new piece of ass that walks by your desk. Now you're probably fucking your boss. First it was Tonks, now this. You can't even stay faithful to the woman you cheat on with – she fucking talks about you all day, and here you are bedding death eaters." Harry had nothing to say, and winced when Neville lifted him front the ground, pressing his wand to his throat.

"If I hear you're consorting with this scum again, I'm going to show the world who you really are. And not just you being a squib. It isn't enough for me to reveal that you're now a magicless has-been behind that arrogant face of yours. No – not just Tonks and Greengrass – hell, I'm going to unearth those two Death Eaters you tore to pieces that night. Remember them, you sick fuck? We still haven't found the heads. I shut down the investigation because I knew you did it, and _why_ you did it. You actually loved Hannah back then. You wanted to avenge her, to hunt down the kind of soulless monsters I'm _still _trying to fight today. So don't fuck with me, Harry. You're going to do exactly what I say, or I'm going to fucking squash you like the piece of shit you really are."

With that, Neville let go of Harry and left the lift, leaving Harry shaken and confused, with a slither of self-loathing for his older self.


	4. All The King's Men

I don't own Harry Potter

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_**Lost Time**_

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All The King's Men

-

Harry spent the rest of his first day doing little but reading through books he had collected from his years of education. A long line of textbooks and tomes sat on a shelf in the examination room for reference, each with their pages bent and creased, his name scrawled on the inner cover. He pored through every note he had written in the margins, amazed at the dedication and insight his older self had shown in the studies. It didn't really help him much, but he felt as if he was getting to know _him_ better.

This Harry wasn't unsure or confused. He didn't dawdle or waste time. Dr. Harry Potter could produce the name of a murderer from a half-mutilated body using only his bare hands and a faithful wand. What surprised him most was the last book – a fresh and sealed one with his own name on the front. Evidently he had contributed heavily to his own field, innovating and breathing life back into a branch of magic long thought useless.

But there was more to just forensic technique that his older self had excelled in. His name was listed in the reference sections of countless articles and journals that he apparently subscribed to. _The Mind of the Dark Wizard_, _Corrupted Thoughts_, _The Journal of Magical Psychiatry, _and other texts he had either contributed in or wrote himself. A paper plane memo he'd discovered had asked him to give his thoughts on the type of dark wizard that enjoyed cutting his victims in precise right angles, leaving his mark with brands in the form of lyrics from popular wizarding singer Celestina Warbeck.

He looked up from his text and moved out of his office, hovering over the body of Alan Stranger. The subject remained untouched, staring up into the harsh white light of the room as his murderer walked free. Harry felt as if he was letting everyone down, failing not only the dead but all the people who treated him as if he was someone who _could_ help them. It was a familiar sentiment, one that he'd struggled with all throughout his years in Hogwarts.

His lack of confidence extended beyond his current self. Though he slightly idolized the older Harry, his doubts over his older counterpart had only grown with Neville's furious diatribe. The man was a adulterer and evidently a murderer. The last fact hit him particularly hard. Of course he had killed. He'd been killing people since the tender of age of eleven, when his hands tore away the life of a grown man, leaving nothing but a pile of dust. But never had he thought he would attack in anything other than self-defense, or even decapitate and mutilate _anyone_. Even an enemy.

Nevertheless, there was something to be said about a wizard as accomplished as Dr. Potter. There had to be more to his character than Neville had said. He was sure he hadn't slept with Daphne. They were obviously on familiar, perhaps even close terms, but it didn't at all seem they had some sort of history. And the proposal Tonks and Paul – he had somehow come to a first name basis with the man – had spoke of piqued his curiosity. It was clear that Paul liked him quite a bit and had offered him some sort of opportunity. Perhaps it was a job offer of some sort? He resolved to talk to talk about it with either Tonks or Daphne, gather information on their reactions to it.

His gaze fell back to the body before him. He had put the moment off for as long as possible, but it became apparent that Neville wanted results. He didn't want to risk the man's wrath, not until he had some solid understanding of the world around him. His dislike for his old friend was festering, and he desperately wanted to strike back at the vindictive, prejudiced detective.

Lifting his wand, he muttered a small spell that turned the wandtip bright yellow. With a last glance to the textbook by his side, he cut from behind each ear to under the chin, where he proceeded to just above the pelvis. Dropping his wand, he clenched his fingers once before pulling the skin back, revealing the muscles and bones under it. He stared with morbid fascination, knowing with certainty that he should have been reeling with nausea at the sight. The steely nerve of his older self seemed to have rubbed off on him. Swallowing, he looked back at the textbook before casting the charm again.

Another cut, assisted by a large, spelled-sharp surgical knife, opened the entire body and revealed the internal organs. Nothing seemed out of place, and the organs all looked like they did in the various diagrams he had consulted. That ruled out any sort of magic that pierced organs or damaged them, including the heart crushing curse. He jotted down the information, modeling it after past reports he had found copies of. It wasn't terribly difficult, consisting of a sheet that he had likely created for himself and writing in results of every test he performed.

He quickly realized that any further exploration would require actual magic, most of which he wasn't aware of. Once again he went through the file cabinets and stacks of paper that were kept in the examination room, uncovering a large amount of reports he had done in the past. The older reports included the names of the tests. Gathering parchment, he quickly devised a master list of techniques that were common to his line of work.

Harry closed the body and threw a sheet over it, retreating to his office. He began to look up every single test and technique he had copied from the reports, familiarizing himself with the basic terminology and goals. Several were interesting, ranging from magic that allowed him to find blockage in blood vessels to charms that left a faint glow where magic touched the body. Others seemed to have more sinister uses.

One curse closed veins and arteries in order to stem blood flow when performing autopsies. This was particularly important when taking apart individual organs. His own cutting had apparently not required this because gravity sunk all the blood to the rear of the body, leaving the top chest mostly dry. Organs, however, acted as sponges that sucked in blood. Harry's mind saw the potential in living beings. Specifically his specimen.

He made to leave his office when he saw Daphne peeking under the white sheet and examining the body beneath. She looked up as he approached, dropping the sheet back down.

"Nothing physically wrong?" She asked, throwing him a sympathetic look.

"Not sure yet," he said, "All I know so far that it's some sort of magic and that the organs themselves look alright. I'm still looking for smaller scale magic that may have been used to kill, like a destroyed nerve to the heart or blocked vessel." He was making most of it up on the spot, but he was technical enough that she didn't bother inquiring further. Her job was to manipulate and push her employees, not to understand what they actually did.

"Well, I'll leave that to you. What I came here for is to apologize for my father. He's really concerned about the PNRP controlling the Ministry in the coming year. With Neville as ambitious as ever and aiming for the Minister's office, he's desperately seeking for someone to better represent the party. Everyone agrees with what we say, but we just can't get over this ridiculous, false stigma of being Death Eaters." She touched Harry's arm, eyes glittering.

Harry smiled, showing his teeth. "I know, Daphne. Things change. Neville wasn't always like this." He stopped, hating to defend the brute that had grown from his housemate. Knowing the anger might show, he changed the subject. "And that proposal. I'm hearing a lot about it again."

Daphne moved closer, and Harry could smell the faint smell of something pleasant. She was tall and lithe, her fair and smooth skin contrasting sharply against the shiny black hair that fell behind her. Alluring, vibrant violet eyes held him to her. Her lips curled into a playful smile. "He's still lost in the fantasy of you being his son-in-law. Can you blame him? He still doesn't believe you're married."

Harry didn't respond outwardly, mind reeling within.

She continued, moving even closer than he thought possible. "But I don't think you'd have done it even if you hadn't gone off and tied the knot with ...Abbot." Here she gave a laugh. "I can't imagine you and Draco ever agreeing to be related, even by marriage. You'd probably be fine, but poor Astoria would never hear the end of it."

So Astoria, Daphne's sister who had been two years below him, had married Draco Malfoy. It hadn't been unexpected. The Malfoys and Greengrasses had always been close, and they were a logical choice after the Parkinsons had all been decimated. Narcissa had abandoned Voldemort in order to save their son, and Harry didn't think it unlikely that Lucius would do the same, but Harry would never get over his doubts regarding them. The Greengrasses had only been remotely affiliated, and it was entirely possible Paul had been threatened to take Lucius' place in the Ministry through threats of torture as Amos Diggory had. Harry had personally hunted down the Death Eater that had forced Diggory to hinder the Aurors in the Wizengamot.

"But you'd have admit, Harry," she said, looking playful, "Our black hair would look great together, inseparable even in bed." Harry's mind conjured an image of her draped across his body, limbs entwined, her hair falling over his chest...

Heat flushed his face, Daphne's grip sending something shooting through his skin. "It would," he said, somewhat beside himself, before taking her arm off, "I'm off now, though. It's almost five." Daphne looked somewhat crestfallen, but she stepped back, easily sliding back into her routine of calm control.

"Well I'll see you tomorrow then." She said said brightly, before bidding him goodbye and disappearing back up the stairs. Harry watched her go before dropping his gaze to his wedding ring. It shone dully back at him, reflecting the cold, harsh light of the room.

--

"Harry!"

Harry turned toward the source of the melodious voice, seeing Tonks run up to him, falling back to a stroll as she reached his side. "The guys and girls are going to Earlberry's for a drink. You're coming with us," She said, grinning, "We're going to get smashed. You haven't been out and around since this new wanker has been murdering left and right. You need a break!"

The thought of going into such an unpredictable environment made him feel uncomfortable, but he supposed anything was preferable to going home. He still hadn't any idea how to approach Hannah, or what one even did as a married man at home. He looked forward to seeing some of his friends, however. The Ministry had held only a few people he knew, making it somewhat of a relief to be back with people who weren't likely plotting against him.

Harry accepted the invitation and plastered a smile on his face, following his Auror friend to the Atrium and to the nearest fireplace. They bumped into a man and cut him to the front. Tonks shoehorned herself inside with him, grabbing on to him tight - "I'll probably kill myself somehow if go alone." - before shouting their destination. Harry saw the man leer at him before the Atrium disappeared into a flash of swirling green.

They tumbled out together, managing to stay on their feet. Tonks quickly bounded off to the far corner, leaving Harry to look around him with curiosity. The pub was a large one, old and filled with numerous types of wizards and witches, most of them young workers freshly free from their shifts. It reminded him faintly of The Hog's Head Inn, but more modern and, apparently, more successful. The bartender was a hulking, bald old man who seemed to resent each and every single customer that entered his establishment, apparently annoyed at the fact his pub drew so many rowdy young wizards and witches. Nobody seemed to pay him any mind, though.

Suffering a withering glare from the bartender for his staring, Harry quickly moved away from him and toward the direction Tonks had gone, where his name was shouted from a few moments later. A lively gathering of people waved him forward, all looking eager to see him for what Harry suspected was an unusually long time.

"Harry! How ya' been?" A large, dark-skinned young man asked, clapping his back. Harry thought he looked familiar, but was dragged over to a witch, who gave him a quick hug. He was passed around awkwardly, greeting everyone before they all settled down, chattering about how he looked far better than he did when they last saw him. Dr. Potter didn't get much sleep, it seemed.

"It's been awhile," the first man said, "We haven't seen you in weeks, more than a month even. How are you holding up without us?" His voice was a deep, imposing baritone, but Harry took an instant liking to him. He was clearly friendly.

"Fine, I guess. It's been boring without you guys." Harry admitted, seeking to stoke their egos. The others had begun talking to Tonks. She was whispering something, pointing at them. Harry saw the same wizard they had cut from before in the corner of his eye, chatting with a companion. They were watching him closely.

"Like it should," his unknown friend laughed, "How could anyone live without seeing me for weeks?"

"There's Blaise at it again," another woman groused, "And Harry had to go and feed his big head." She was small, with reddish-brown hair. Harry thought she looked faintly like Susan Bones.

"He's just happy he got promoted. After years of slaving away Mr. Zabini here got promoted to Senior Brown-noser Extraordinaire. Now he gets to go shoulder deep in his Department Head's ass." Tonks smirked, slamming down her newly empty cup. Harry laughed absentmindedly, focused more on the new guests than the rapid exchange.

"Right." Blaise said, looking equally vicious. His eyes were slightly glassy from the drink. "Like you didn't follow old Shacklebolt around 'till you made Senior Auror. Why are you here, anyway? Don't you have some of your thirty-and-older friends to be around? This is a twenty's crowd."

"Oh, I'm only four or five years older than you lot. I can hang around with anyone I want." She morphed to a teenage girl. "One day I'll be making fun of you guys for being old codgers." She smiled, sticking out her tongue.

The rest of them laughed. Harry kept his presence well, but abstained from downing too many drinks. He didn't want to be drunk, especially at a time where he could say the wrong thing and draw undue attention. It was an opportunity for him to gather some more information from his loose-tongued friends without looking strange. He waited until they had all had several rounds. Blaise was busy babbling away about his boss to an uninterested Susan, Tonks was sharing stories of arrests with three others, and Katie Bell, another he recognized, was ranting on to someone beside her. The two men had also disappeared, allowing Harry to relax somewhat and think.

He wondered where his original two friends had ended up. He had been on bad terms with Hermione before he had gone to duel Voldemort. They had been a couple before, becoming more than friends when they had gone Horucrux hunting in his Seventh Year. She had come to him when Ron had stormed off from their tent, talking at first, then brief brushes, before ending up together in a tangle of limbs, sweaty and regretful under threadbare blankets.

It had been the end of an era, and Hermione had ceased to be his friend, trading the long-held position for lover. In a way, he reflected, it was inevitable. She had been his only true female friend, not blinded by his name and seeing him as a person. The times had been dark, and in the cold tent, alone as fugitives, they had thrown caution to the air and proved Rita Skeeter, long dead by then for slandering the wrong person, right.

But desperate lust was never the basis of a healthy relationship, and Hermione had run back to Ron's arms less than a few months after he had returned ashamed and apologetic. Harry didn't much begrudge Ron, but he hadn't been very welcoming to Hermione after that. She had lashed out at his angry accusations, and it had never been the same. But he and Ron had never really severed their friendships. Perhaps his new acquaintances knew something of him...

"Ron." He said somewhat dully, hoping somebody would hear. Susan looked up at him, face contorting somewhat. She was just as liquored up as the rest, cradling a drink in her hands, cheeks slightly flushed.

"Oh, Harry. It is sad, isn't it? And they were going to marry too..." She said somewhat slurred, tears glimmering in her eyes. "It's terrible." Katie let out a few sniffles as well, muttering something about the dense, but likable brat she remembered from Gryffindor.

Blaise broke in, somewhat cheerier than the rest. Susan and Katie glared at his unsympathetic demeanor, but the former Slytherin didn't notice. "Oh that lad? Yes, it was sad. I didn't like the bloke, he was a classic Longbottom in the making, but I feel your pain, Harry. You guys were inseparable at Hogwarts. Wonder if her fiance's over it..."

"Blaise!" A smallish, mousy young man he didn't recognize called out angrily, "You're such an insensitive prick. Poor Harry here is thinking of his dead friend and here you are talking about getting with his fiance?"

Tonks sidled over to Harry, finishing yet another firewhiskey. Harry was amazed at how much she could put down. He attributed it to her skills as a Metamorphmagus – even the legendary Weasley twins would have been comatose.

"Don't worry guys, that's just Blaise being a Zabini. His mother wasn't any different..." She said, and suddenly Harry found himself next to a beautiful, dark skinned woman in a sweeping dress. She clutched his arm, turning him around to face her and climbing into his lap. Tucking her head into his neck, she kissed below his ear and whispered loudly. "Oh, Mr. Potter...you're such a handsome, rich, young man. My last husband just died, so I need some _special _comfort..." Her other hand squeezed his thigh.

The others roared in laughter as Blaise sank back, face impossibly red for his dark complexion. "This again. I swear, Tonks, you only do that for Harry. It's not even funny anymore."

Tonks morphed back, planting a kiss on Harry's cheek and jumping off. "Oh, Harry knows it's all just in good fun, right Harry?" She said, eyes sparkling with something entirely different.

Harry just smiled slightly in return, feeling shame and arousal race through him.

--

"Well, you don't think...you know, that it's time to uh, go home, do ya?" Blaise managed to slur out, arm draped around Harry. The shorter man had been singing loudly in his ear for some time, conducting a giggly, off-key chorus out of the rest of Harry's companions.

Harry winced, his ears ringing, subtly pushing him back to his own seat. "I'd say so." he remarked dryly, surveying his mostly unresponsive bachelor friends. Tonks muttered something about poor married men and their slave-like existences.

They sat around for several more minutes, doing little but sip and stare before finally gathering the will to leave. The bar was steadily emptying, and they were quickly becoming the last to leave. Susan, Katie, and the mousy man from before stumbled out with a quick farewell, leaving Blaise, Tonks, and Harry alone. While the latter two engaged each other in senseless chatter, Harry took the opportunity to look around the pub, watching the antics of the other occupants who were also overstaying their welcome.

Most of the people were much like them, dazed and slightly off, still idly drinking. The bartender had began scowling outright, and he was clearly irritated at the unending calls for more whiskey. He poured them agonizingly slow, breathing heavily as he stared straight at the customers. It was as if he were making sure to cram each and every drop of liquor with hatred.

Harry looked around more, wondering what had happened to the suspicious two wizards that had followed them from before. He spotted them before long, sitting not far behind him. They stood out between all the goofy grins, and despondent, glazed eyes, sitting up straight and utterly alert. They caught his eyes and flashed him cold grins, standing up and moving towards him.

Harry stomach seemed to drop as they brought out their wands. He had no proper magic to defend himself. He steeled himself against the inevitable fear and carefully assessed the situation – something he had learned from the endless battles he had endured in the past year of his own time.

His more than capable Auror friend seemed completely passed out, as was Zabini. He recognized the robes the two men wore, knowing they belonged to Magical Law Enforcers. They were the equivalent of muggle constables, a local policing force that dealt with lesser crimes and offenses against Wizarding society. That meant nobody else would dare step in. He remembered Paul mentioning the enforcement arms of the Ministry had become more aggressive in their behavior. He gripped the cold wood of his wand more from habit that necessity, steeling himself for what he could already feel was going to be a difficult confrontation.

"Mr. Potter." The first man all but spat.

"Mr. _Harry_ Potter." The second echoed, but with a refined air of ridicule. This man was obviously in control. He flashed him an empty smile. "Enjoying your visit to the Wizarding world?"

Harry scowled. So they knew as well. He was beginning to wonder how much the news had spread. He had a feeling his older self had kept this information under control, and it was only his coming that had broken the smooth working of things.

"I am," he replied icily, "I think I'll stay permanently. Unless that's a problem with you, gentlemen?" He knew he shouldn't have challenged them with so little to back himself, but he was in no mood to be walked on again, especially by crooked Enforcers who doubtless worked for someone who hated him.

"Oh, but I think you need to have _magic _to stay here – right, Lichter?" The first man, a Crabbe-lookalike, snarled back, clearly enjoying what seemed to be his first worthwhile insult in quite some time. Lichter watched indulgently, letting out a noise of agreement.

"But we won't question Mr. Potter any further. After all, he already made his deals to stay. He makes do with what he has in the only real job he _can_ do without magic." And here he let out a snide laugh that somewhat reminded him of a Hyena. His partner followed suit some seconds later with his own piggish snorts. "We're not here to remind the man of all the things he's missing," he continued, flicking his wand at Harry and sending him crashing back into the table behind him, "We're just here to give him a message."

The magic drove all the air out of his lungs, and he was left gasping as he slid to the floor. The man waved his wand as he coughed, slamming him back to the floor as he struggled to get up. His arms and legs seemed stuck the floor, his body pinned down above the metal utensils and broken glass all around him. He fought savagely against the invisible binds to no avail.

He turned his head, hoping Tonks had at least woken at the noise. Both the Auror and Blaise both sleeping gently. Further glances confirmed what he feared – the entire bar was asleep aside from them, looking as if they had simply fallen over.

The thinner, bespectacled man – Lichter, he remembered, took the lead, the bulk of his larger partner casting a sinister shadow over his face. "Don't look for help, Potter. We've got a free reign here, and that includes anything we want to do to take your friends out of the game." He ignored Harry's crass retort. "Now listen, or we'll just enjoy ourselves more," he said coldly, twirling his wand, "Your old buddy Neville – our good friend as well – wants you to do some sniffing on your new master Paul Greengrass. Some of our higher ups in the party aren't replying to our firecalls or owls. We think the PPB is doing something dirty. We don't care how unimportant you think the information is. He does anything but breathe and we want to know. Got that?"

He should have guessed Neville was behind this. His power behind the PNRP allowed him the sympathy of the law enforcement branches, and doubtless widespread influence. He had probably told his followers the former _boy-who-lived_ was now all but magicless, seeking to enable them to more confidently approach the wizard that had supposedly defeated Lord Voldemort. There were few that could muster such bravado against him in his own time – doubtless it would have been even less had he kept his magic in this one.

The realization struck Harry harshly, and he couldn't respond, too angry to even think. He struggled helplessly against the magic. Lichter watched with pleasure, kneeling down. "I'll repeat that for you. Do you understand, Mr. Potter?"

He brought out his wand and raising its tip up and down. "Yes, I do, Mr. Lichter. I'm going to go back and do your bidding. I will do anything you ask me to!" He mimicked, breaking into laughter as Harry's head was forced to nod as well. Harry's arms quivered against the unyielding force, but he managed to stretch his hand out just enough to grasp one of the forks that had fell to the ground with him.

"Alright, Ernest. Put the lad back on his feet," Lichter said, stepping back and allowing the larger man room, "I think he understands the significance of what we're asking. He knows he can't fuck this up." Harry heard the unspoken threat, but was far too lost in his fury to care. His fingers tightened around the cool metal in his hand.

Just as Lichter broke the binding charm and Ernest stepped forward, Harry brought the fork down into the massive shoe closest to him. It made a curious sound, tearing through leather, skin, and bone before coming to a rest. Ernest stopped and gaped stupidly, too overwhelmed by pain. Harry leapt to his feet just as Lichter realized what happened.

The man shot off a confining curse Harry knew Magical Law Enforcers routinely used to immobilize suspects. He grabbed the bulk of Lichter's partner and threw the man toward him. The curse bound the Ministry employee and dropped him to the floor, his body squirming pathetically in pain and surprise.

Harry's older self was far more capable physically, undoubtedly making more use of his body in the absence of magic. He charged toward Lichter and tore the wand away, throwing it to the side. He wasn't sure what he wanted to accomplish by fighting, but he recognized the fulfillment of it all. All the frustration, his confusion, the almost surreal concept of losing his magic fueled his rage. He savagely swung at the thin man's face, completely shattering his glasses and breaking his nose.

He crashed his elbow into his opponent's ribs and threw him down, raining blows on the smaller man for several more seconds before Harry found himself thrown back, pinned to the bar by a massive, meaty arm. Ernest had risen once more, face purple in both anger and pain. His hand was wrapped around Harry's throat, squeezing mercilessly.

"No! Leave him!" Lichter coughed out from behind, rising to his feet. Crimson streams and ugly blue splotches colored his face, but he still looked commanding. "You can't kill him!"

Ernest's breathed heavily, his fingers squeezing once more before stepping back, staying threateningly close.

"You're lucky, Potter, that Neville has a use for you. You're a no good squib, a dark sympathizer on top of it all. You don't deserve anything you have, not even that mute wife of yours," he snarled, wiping at the torrent of blood running from his nose, "Step out of line again and we might not be so accommodating. After we'll finish you perhaps me and Ernest here will show your dearest what real _wizards_ are like. Whether the bitch likes it or not."

Harry grabbed a half-full pitcher of firewhiskey from behind the bar and swung it across the large wizard's face. He immediately fell to the floor in a shower of glass and burning liquor, clearly unconscious. Harry stepped over the body and rammed the unarmed and surprised wizard into wall behind him.

The skeletal, weaker man wheezed at the impact, barely keeping himself standing. Harry took his collar and pinned him, scowling further as his opponent managed to laugh, croaking out a goading remark. "What are you going to do, Potter, kill me? You know you can't win. You're going to do exactly as I say, because in the end, there are more of us. What can you hope to accomplish with your bare hands against us?"

Harry knew the Enforcer was not lying; Neville could easily make his life miserable. But he needed to send a message. He didn't want to be trifled with. Harry took a sharp shard of glass from the broken pitcher and raised it to the man's neck, who simply blinked in disbelief, beginning to stammer: "What? You can't do this! I'm an officer of the _law_!"

Harry sneered, itching to simply end the scum's life. He dragged it lightly against the taut skin, resulting in a few whimpers.

"Yeah? I'll be sure to find out who murdered you at your autopsy tomorrow." Savoring the fearful gasp, he dropped the shard and slammed his head into the wizard's face, letting him fall to the ground limp.

The spell keeping the few people left in the bar asleep broke, and they all stirred, blinking owlishly and staring at the destruction around them. Harry quickly took a seat, attempting to avoid seeming out of place. He couldn't help feeling somewhat satisfied with _himself_ for the first time since his arrival into the future.

Tonks raised her head slowly and looked around, looking slightly less inebriated than before. Her eyes took in the two unconscious bodies and Harry's injuries before cursing.

"Ah, damn, I knew it was a sleeping charm. And I'm supposed to know how to resist those... Jesus Harry, you're bleeding all over!"

--

Blaise and Tonks pushed Harry to the fireplace, ignoring his insistence that he wasn't hurt. He didn't want to make an affair out of the entire episode, much less go to St. Mungos to have himself examined. There was so much to do, so much to think and reflect on. He didn't know how Neville would respond, but he didn't think it would be pleasant. There would be consequences, but he was fairly sure he wouldn't get any more physical intimidation.

Tonks volunteered to escort him there once she found the two Enforcers gone, having attempted to secure orders from a superior to detain them. Even if she had detained them in her capacity as an Auror, Tonks had confided to Harry, Neville would have just cleared the charges. As they arrived at the Wizarding hospital, she talked of the many cases in which the Senior Detective had used his influence as Party Leader to clear charges ranging from Excessive Force, extortion, illegal detention, even corruption.

"The head of the DMLE," she said, pronouncing it 'Dim-Lee', " - isn't sympathetic to any particular party, but he's under a lot of pressure to just accept what the PNRP dictates. With the party holding the majority of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards, they can hold a Vote of No-Confidence and oust him, citing him incapable."

Harry wiped some blood off of his brow as they stood in line to check-in. The portrait of Dilys Derwent, celebrated healer and former Hogwart's Headmistress, clucked her tongue as they passed her by, straining her neck to examine his injuries. She was a motherly figure, somehow looking enormously wise as well as worried, closely watching every patient that entered.

"Are you with any party?" He asked. Harry felt an obligation to distance himself from her if she was indeed with Neville, fearing repercussions against her if she continued supporting him. If all her colleagues were members, it wasn't unbelievable to think she had also joined simply to avoid distancing herself.

She shook her head. "I don't like either of them, especially the two big ones that we have on hand. I'm a bit sympathetic to criminalizing dark magic, being an Auror and knowing what it can do, but I can't reconcile all that with how the PNRP operates. I know you don't get involved much in the politics, being stuck down there and all, but they're practically a mafia, Harry. Neville's running for Minister next month, and he's using all his influence to start a smear campaign against the PPB. They're not a pretty bunch either, but they haven't done anything wrong. We're told to examine them and hunt for ties to former Death Eaters. Besides Paul himself, who never really was convicted on _anything_, they're completely clean. They're ahead in the polls to boot."

The idea of this new Neville somehow becoming Minister of Magic was frightening. He imagined him enforcing draconian laws against any sort of magic he deemed evil, arming his Aurors, Hit-Wizards, and Enforcers with the ability to detain and imprison without the slightest evidence of wrong-doing. He didn't know what Paul was proposing, but he didn't think it was as drastic as fully legalizing dark magic. There was something innately _wrong_ about it, but casting such spells on occasion did not merit imprisonment. Harry himself had slipped more than a few times in his duels against Death Eaters, perhaps more than he wanted to admit to himself.

A bored looking attendant appeared and notified them quietly that a room had become available. She pressed the protesting Harry into a wheelchair and spelled it to take him to the empty room. Much to Tonks' amusement, Harry found that it went much too fast for him to attempt leaving it. He clutched at the handles as it raced between ailing wizards and witches, darting through the hallways and speeding up a circular ramp that took him up several floors. After a few near-collisions and several sudden turns, it came to an abrupt halt, throwing him to his feet. Harry stumbled back into the bed, watching as the wheelchair rattled tauntingly at him before zooming away. Tonks apparated into the room several moments later, laughing at his expense.

They didn't have to wait long for a healer. The door opened within a couple minutes, admitting a witch in pale blue healer robes. Harry froze as he recognized the young woman.

His wife looked up and smiled at him, clearly having missed his name on the documents set in her clipboard. The warm, inviting blue eyes melted away as soon as she saw his bloodied face, and she rushed over to him, holding his face in her hands and examining all his cuts and bruises. She was rambling away silently under her breath, completely voiceless. Harry was overwhelmed by the attention, surprised at her behavior.

"Hannah, Hannah – I'm okay!" He managed, grabbing her hands in his own. She struggled for a bit before settling down, biting her lip and looking as if she wanted nothing better than to examine him fully. The worry and fear in her face was palpable. After staring into his eyes for several long seconds, she turned her head, looking at the only other occupant in the room.

"Hi Hannah," Blaise Zabini said brightly, "Harry got into a brawl with some shady guys at the pub. Bastards put us to sleep, else I woulda helped him out." Harry stared at the man before realizing what had happened. Hannah looked back at him and waited expectantly.

"Yeah, that's what happened." He said slowly. Feeling an odd desire to impress her, he added with a smile, "I got them both, though." Hannah shook her head, her panicked look giving way to a disheartening disbelief as took back her hands, bringing out her wand and pressing it against his wounds. 'Blaise' winked at him before excusing himself, apparating away.

The cuts began to heal themselves as she ran the wandtip over them, a warm glow flowing out of it. Hannah's face had a look of utter concentration, and it seemed she was lost in the spell. He took the opportunity to look at the woman he was now married to, her face close to his as she took her time closing the small gash next to his neck.

The scent of strawberries filled his nose as he breathed in, and he couldn't help but lean in slightly. The fair skin of her cheeks were slightly pink, blond hair falling just above her shoulders. She was quite pretty, the kind of appealing, sweet face that looked good in the morning without powders and brushes. There was such a purity, an overwhelming aura of innocence about her that Harry felt a wave of revulsion for the man he felt he would be eager to someday become. How could he ever betray her?

He basked in her presence as the minutes flew past, simply enjoying her dedication, the care and concern of the appealing figure tending to his health. An odd feeling of nostalgia passed through him – one that he couldn't fathom the reason for. His thoughts were interrupted as Hannah finally straightened.

Harry met her eyes and waited, wondering what to say. As he watched her he realized she hadn't ever spoken. The words of Lichter, ignored in the midst of battle, returned to him – "…not even that mute wife of yours." She could not speak.

Hannah bit her lip and raised her wand, moving it through the air as if she were writing. Soft orange light poured through the tip and formed letters, much in the same way Tom Riddle had far too many years ago.

_I am finished here. Please come home for once, Harry. With me. _

Harry felt a wave of guilt and found it difficult to look at her face. He quickly accepted, both nodding his head vigorously and saying it out loud. Hannah's careful, measured behavior from before was quickly replaced by a slight hopefulness that Harry could easily picture his older self taking advantage of time and time again. She was a left-behind, desperate girl who loved until the very end.

Hannah brought up her index finger, gesturing for him to wait. She dashed out the door and returned a mere minute later, her hair down and a cloak on her body, looking for all the world the same shy, lovely girl he remembered from Hogwarts. Grabbing his hand, she pulled Harry up to his feet and conjured a matching cloak for him, pausing to straighten it before taking him outside the room.

Understanding that she was going to apparate, Harry grabbed Hannah's arm and stood close to her, readying himself for the unpleasant experience. He looked to his side to see his wife smiling at him, seconds before they dissapeared.

He didn't think Dr. Potter deserved her at all.


	5. In Due Time

I don't own Harry Potter

-

_**Lost Time**_

-

In Due Time

-

Harry arrived into his kitchen to see breakfast already set.

His wife, clad in little but her nightgown stepped up to him from the stove and kissed his cheek, smiling as she fixed his poorly done tie. Harry grinned back shakily, startled at how quickly she had become so adoring. He wanted to shake her, to warn her against the despicable man she was married to before remembering that man was himself.

They sat together at the table and ate. Harry tried to make idle conversation by talking about his case. He didn't think it was at all interesting, but she listened with complete focus, nodding and allowing him to speak freely as he wished. It was somewhat liberating to have someone so dedicated to his thoughts and feelings – caring for his welfare other than mere survival. He only wished he could bring himself to tell her who he really was. That he wasn't from her time, that he had done the impossible and leaped through the years. That he wasn't her deceitful, unfaithful husband.

He wondered if she would be happy.

Harry felt guilt at not completely reciprocating her devotion. No matter how much better he was than his older self, he couldn't bring himself to completely love Hannah. He was only eighteen, fresh in mind, inexperienced and new to the concept of _romance_. The word sounded to him like a wistful dream, a thing of fairy tales that didn't belong in the harsh battlefield that made up most of his grown life. She was something new.

Finishing his breakfast, he grabbed what seemed to be the newest _Daily Prophet_ and headed for the fireplace. Hannah lingered behind him, eyes bright and steady, watching him go. She handed him his briefcase and made one final adjustment to his shirt before sending him off, hands brushing his face lightly before he entered the fire. Harry awkwardly uttered a farewell before disappearing, the image of the young woman seared into his mind.

**--**

Harry entered the newly renamed Department of Magical Peacekeeing Affairs, and confidently made his way to the stairs leading to the Office of Forensics. It was as busy as ever, filled beyond capacity, bustling with wizards of all sorts. Among them, he noticed several Aurors and Hit-Wizards stared at him as he passed by, most with thinly veiled dislike.

Even Tonks could not do more than nod in his direction before hurriedly resuming her work. He found it somewhat disheartening, and began to realize just what he had gotten himself into. A large, burly Auror crashed into him purposefully as he walked, sneering out an unsympathetic apology without even turning back.

Neville's desk was in a small glass office, within a clearing before the stairwell leading to the Office of Forensics. The man watched him stonily as he passed by. Harry returned the look, knowing full well he'd be seeing the Senior Detective soon.

Just as he entered the stairwell, a streak of magic flew at him from the corner of his eye. Reflexes born of battles long lost to the past leapt to action once more and drove him to step to the side, the curse only barely missing his side. The door creaked loudly at the impact and absorbed the blow, the wood slightly darkened by the curse, faint smoke rising from the mark.

Harry looked back to see several of the men in chuckles, the large man from before dropping his wand with mock regret. His hand went for his wand before realizing he had too little magic to use it.

"Sorry old boy, it must have misfired." The blonde hulk said with a laugh, before turning away. "You're lucky you never make that kind of mistake, right?"

Murderous rage flew through him to no end, and he could do no more than dream of tearing the Auror to pieces. Sending one last glance at an amused looking Neville, Harry turned his back and descended into the stairwell.

He hadn't much improved when he arrived in his office, too angry to even begin his work.

He _missed_ magic. He missed it so much it seemed as if he would do commit any sort of crime, trade anything, surrender all of his beliefs to get it back. That feeling of loss that he had experienced when he first woke was the gaping hole in his soul, the tear in his soul that reminded him he had lost what made him who he was. The agony was unbearable, _unthinkable. _How had Dr. Potter survived with his sanity intact?

He paced the small room and eventually settled in himself in front of the wall of awards. Dr. Potter's pursuits after losing much of his abilities in wizardry had been mostly in higher learning. He read off several of the institutions he had supposedly studied at – one was clearly muggle, a famous university he remembered hearing even as a child with the Dursleys. He imagined a benevolent friend in the institution had allowed this – without any sort of formal muggle education beyond primary school, Harry would never normally be admitted into such prestigious schools.

Selecting one of the books he had contributed to, Harry flipped to the pages in the end, looking for the short biography that accompanied many works. His picture, identical to his current state, stared back at him, animated and clearly in possession of the mind of his older self. The picture representation of himself narrowed its eyes and adjusted its glasses, studying Harry with all the interest in the world.

He ignored the off-putting figure and read the text beneath.

_Dr. Harry Potter is best known perhaps for his defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort, both as a child and a final time at the age of eighteen. _

_Though he never formally completed his Hogwarts education, refusing to return after his final duel with Voldemort, he enrolled himself in a muggle institution of study and quickly graduated within a couple years. During this time, he was widely courted and sought after, though he expressly avoided contact with the Wizarding World. _

_He returned to Wizarding Life in his early twenties, having completed his studies of the muggle biological sciences and became a student in the St. Mungo's School of Healing, using his background in forensics to revolutionize the field in magical law enforcement. Graduating with the highest honors, he became a natural candidate for the Ministry's Office of Forensics, and quickly became Chief Forensic Officer of the British Ministry of Magic. _

_Publishing several other books and contributing to many scholarly papers, he is heavily involved in tracking criminals all across the Wizarding community, and is personally responsible for countless high profile arrests. _

_Dr. Potter currently lives with his wife of seven years in Ravenglass, Cumbria. _

The length his elder self had gone to keep himself in the wizarding world was admirable. Still, it evoked a sense of sadness in him when he realized he too would face the same life Dr. Potter had worked years to overcome. Life without magic must have been difficult… _was_ difficult.

His wand was always close to his hand, but it never quite responded to him in the way he had come to expect it would. Magic was what made him more than just an unwanted orphan locked in a cupboard. Perhaps it was slightly elitist, but Harry knew he could never again tolerate life as a muggle. The ability to cause change beyond physical means was such an addictive extension to his being that he often wondered how his older self hadn't gone insane. Perhaps he had. He himself could feel the strain of being an outsider among wizards, a mere squib among the most powerful, fantastic beings alive.

His bittersweet defeat of Voldemort had likely driven Harry away in shame, pushing him to make something of himself without magic. But he had returned, driven and dedicated to make his place. But how much of his success was his own? He remembered Lichter, the thin assailant from the bar, talking about how he had secured his place in the Wizarding world through deals.

There seemed to be evidence of patronage. Squibs were not allowed beyond basic clerical work in the Ministry of Magic, a fact that Harry doubted had changed. Though some revered the pureblooded and looked down upon muggleborns, there seemed to be a widespread sense of ridicule of squibs. Even Ron, steady in his dislike for pureblooded bigotry looked down upon Argus Filch even more when it was discovered he was a squib. Harry himself remembered thinking even less of the ill-tempered man than ever before. The caretaker's overall disposition toward fledgling, able wizards seemed to be a direct result of his own lack of magic – and the ridicule he must have suffered because of it.

He looked on towards the last paragraph. Wife of seven years. Harry knew it was accurate – books imbued with magic often updated ages and the like to stay correct. He had married Hannah at the age of nineteen, a year after his defeat of Voldemort. Since he had apparently left the Wizarding world at eighteen, he must have met her at that age as well.

Harry struggled to think of Hannah's whereabouts during the last days of the war. She had been a mediwitch he remembered, studying under several healers to join them in their trade. He had seen her talking with some of her old school friends, and even recalled being patched up once by her himself. After the death and carnage had been dealt, she spent her time tending to the injured while he swore revenge.

It was only a week ago, he had to remind himself. He was having difficulty keeping his own life straight with Dr. Potter's at times, and had begun thinking of his final battle as a distant memory, a fragment of a year lost to the ages. He desperately wanted to return, more than ever he wished to live his own life. The hellish existence of his future self was a warning of things to come. He could go and change things, make things better. If only he was aware of what his duel would result in – perhaps he could choose another path.

--

Harry finally relented to his sense of duty and resumed his dissections. Most of his tests resulted in nothing. The organs in the chest cavity looked fine, the brain was intact, and there was none of the indications of Avada Kedavra. The characteristic look, the residue of dark magic – none was present.

He stood covered in a white apron long stained red, peeling back the outer muscles of the heart while it still remained attached. The body before him was now a thin husk, long since dried of blood to ease the autopsy. As Harry readied himself for another round of tests, he saw Daphne enter from the doors to the side.

"Bad news," she intoned, looking as if she were presenting anything but. Her low cut robes drew Harry's attention more than he liked.

"I really can't see how that's possible," Harry replied stonily, frowning as cardiac valve blockage was ruled out. The chambers of the heart were open and clear, the passages between them showing no abnormalities. It was becoming unsettling how quickly he had adapted to the work, as if he was resuming something he had forgotten long ago…

"Well, several high ranking officials were just found dead today. They're coming in threes and fours, maybe a dozen or so in all. Probable time of death was over the weekend, before even our first find. Neville looks like he's going to have a heart attack. Can't say I'm not amused by the idea," she said, shrugging, "Bastard would probably come back as a ghost and still belittle me."

Harry ignored the banter. "Several high ranking officials?" He echoed. "They're coming here?"

"You're the only one available, Harry. All the other guys are busy with work out of town. Besides, they want the best for this stuff. You know they wouldn't let some new guy take it."

The praise didn't do much for the wariness that seemed to creep at his mind. One body was enough to take care of. The dead were surprising difficult to manage. Meticulously taking apart twelve would be hellish.

"Well, you forget that they're probably all killed by the same guy, the same way. Initial reports indicate no physical damage, no visible magical residue – the usual stuff we see from our guy." Daphne pointed out.

"Joy." He commented dryly. "When do they come in?" There was no way he could ever go through them all. Likely he'd keep working on his second corpse. What applied to the first most likely applied for them all.

"They'll be coming in as soon as the person Neville brought in for the cursory evidence collection is done. We're not going to be around though. My father is giving a speech on this – it's an important event to discuss for the nation. There's obviously going to be some increased support for Neville and stiffer security measures against anything perceived even remotely bad. He needs to address it and soothe tensions, otherwise the PRNP's going to capitalize on it all and tip the polls. It's an open event – everyone's invited – but I think he'd like you to be there. Come – it's starting soon!"

He couldn't think of a reason against going. Looking back at the gorged man he'd been working on, he carefully took off his apron and gloves and accepted, knowing there would be several opportunities to perhaps learn something more of the current time.

--

Harry stood in the massive crowd of people gathered before the raised podium, barely able to hear Daphbe's chattering amid the senseless noise in the conference hall. It was a large room, not quite as imposing as the Atrium but certainly enough to hold a thousand people. There seemed to be just that many, nearly a fifth of them press.

The room was to the side of the security desk on the first floor, at the end of a long hallway. The walk there had been slightly uncomfortable, having left the DMPA with more glares and dirty looks than he had entered with. The silence between them had disappeared quickly with a humorous jab at the PNRP, and they quickly resumed their talk.

Now he stood waiting, trying to get his tie fixed correctly and straining to retrace the steps Hannah had taken in straightening it out and making it presentable. Daphne laughed at his effort but didn't motion to help - something that made Harry think more fondly of his wife than ever.

The time wore on, and the minutes stretched by. People were becoming uncomfortable. Several members of the press spoke to each other in hushed tones about a string of high profile murders.

Daphne suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him to the back, where he saw Paul sneaking in, looking as confident and collected as ever. No one seemed to have noticed him yet.

After greeting his daughter, he turned to him.

"Harry! It's good to see you here. I asked Daphne to bring you along because I thought you would be interested in getting a better handle of what we stand for." He said, smiling broadly.

"I certainly am, sir." He said honestly. Paul looked amused.

"No need to call me sir, Harry. I'm not your father-in-law." He said humorously, eliciting a groan from Daphne. "Now I have to get going – they're getting restless."

And with that he darted to the front, appearing behind the podium and drawing a sudden round of cheering. He waved to the crowd and shook hands with many of the officials near the front. The noise seemed to die down as soon as he turned around and made a cutting motion with his right hand, silence following within seconds.

--

The audience drew forward somewhat, their eyes fixed on the pristine, charismatic figure of the man before them. He commanded attention, his voice powerful and believable, carrying the weight of honesty. As he began to speak, Harry felt himself drawn into the words, the curtain of focus blocking every other concern in his mind.

_"We are constantly pushed and prodded to remember the lessons of the Dark wars. Of course the real issue is not remembering, but rather knowing what the pertinent lesson of those sad years were._

Here he paused, looking down at the podium for the slightest moment to let the words sink in.

_The then-named Department of Magical Law Enforcement released a report after the first downfall of the Dark Lord Voldemort. It was made after the many inquiries by the Wizengamot into the heavy handedness shown by the Aurors and Hit-Wizards under Barty Crouch's command._

Harry noticed that no one had flinched when the evil wizard's name was spoken. It was as if the audience was basking in the bold power of the speaker. Paul looked across the hall, eyes hardening. Disgust lined his voice.

_It was inconclusive. It was neither self-condemning or even apologetic. It was estimated that close to three hundred and fifty innocent wizards and witches, even four muggles were either sent to Azkaban or became casualties of war after 'enhanced interrogation'. The report even had the audacity to praise its makers as being proactive._

_But common sense already tells us the tens of millions of galleons spent by government agencies, whose job it is to provide security and intelligence for our country, failed. A bloated, overbearing police state is not the solution. Though the pendulum swung too far to the other side in Voldemort's return, this is no reason to bring back the brutality and injustice of the past. Fear of yet another dark resurgence has allowed certain people to get away with trampling on our freedoms, our liberties, and the inherent rights we deserve as wizards and witches!_

Scattered cheers broke out, but most were far too lost in the truth of the words, gripped by comprehension.

_Remember that it wasn't the state-sanctioned tortures that defeated Voldemort. It wasn't unreasonable search and seizure. It wasn't suppression of the press, enforced curfew, or excessive force. It was a child gifted with magic, born with a noble heart and empowered with the ability to survive the most lethal of all curses._

_The opposition would have you re-register your wands monthly, and have it checked for 'non-approved' spells. This list would be completely arbitrary, and subject to the whims of the bureaucracy. Do you wish to invent a new spell? If Mr. Longbottom has his way, you would be prosecuted for doing such a thing. Does your family have a certain charm you keep for your own? A passing novelty, perhaps? You could be seeing the grey of Azkaban by noon._

_This new Ministry would tell you what you can and can't do – down to what spells you can use and how and when you perform them. A permit for powerful cutting charms useful for yard work. Registration for anything that could possibly hurt a human being. Don't even think about using a curse to get rid of those gnomes – an Auror will be notified and you will be a criminal. And most degrading of all – the Trace will remain forever. The demise of your privacy will be complete. Grown wizards and witches will be treated like mere children, forced to endure Mr. Longbottom reading through every single spell they cast. _

_The proponents of the PNRP do not hesitate to impugn the character of those who point out the shortcomings of current policy, calling them unpatriotic and appeasers of terrorism. It is said that they are responsible for the growing armed resistance, and for the killing of British wizards and witches. _

_The Sons of Warlocks, the Common Wizard's Liberation Front – even the so called neo-Death Eaters, be them a nostalgic new group or a more sinister fragment of the past - would not be enjoying a rapid growth of their ranks. By denying that our outright brutality has brought support to those that wish to harm us, it's easy to play the patriot card and find a scapegoat to blame. When your father is beaten mercilessly to death at your doorstep for being seen casting a marginally dark curse – merely to rid his home with a rat infestation – what do you feel? How can you deny not feeling anger and hatred at the Ministry? At law and order? Can you deny not wanting revenge – death and destruction perhaps? _

_The PNRP ridicules its opponents and tells the public that its policy has boiled down to testing our resolve. The only path now offered is to escalate our battles and avenge the deaths of British Aurors – if they kill one of our men, we'll kill ten of theirs. But the more we kill, the greater the incitement of the terrorists. The more we imprison and give the kiss to not only criminals, but innocent people fighting for their civil liberties – the more legitimate their cause becomes. _

_The opposition asks me what I plan to do about the dark wizards that are murdering our people, that incite harm and sow discord and destruction. Their solution is to impose more rules and take the right to defend yourself from your own hands. _

_They don't understand who assumes most of the responsibility for the security of our homes and businesses in a free society. It's not merely the Aurors or Hit-Wizards. They can help, but there are far too few of them, and it's not their job to stand guard outside our houses or places of business. We live in a society in which each of us is born with the ability to create fire, level buildings with curses, and counter against the most powerful nature can offer. Why is it we are incapable to defend against each other?_

_In a world where powerful magic is illegal, only criminals will use it. What motley group of scum would ever dare attack a populace armed as well as they? Take our spells away, and we will be powerless against those who ignore the law. _

_Magic is a powerful thing. It drives us, it enables us. It can divide us. Do not allow any man to take away your right to freely use your wand, to exercise your birthright, lest you find yourself tyrannized by the minority that can."_

The audience roared. Paul stepped back and watched, his eyes gleaming in victory. He found Harry and smiled before stepping off the stage as his name rang out across the hall.

Daphne disappeared into the crowd, undoubtedly to congratulate him. Harry stood amidst the almost frenzied cheering, lost in thought. The message of the speech had cut close – the idea of losing the freedom to use one's birthright – and resonated deep. He _knew_ how it was like. The idea of such a restriction being placed on the entire populace was unbearable, eliciting the same fury that arose every time he reach out to feel the emptiness within his being.

This was a consequence of Neville's increasingly draconian influence he had never thought of. He glanced back at the disappearing Paul. He might not have belonged in this time, but he knew he couldn't turn his back on such an important issue. The People's National Reform Party was a threat that needed countering. Strengthening the Populace Party of Britain was the only effective way to check the despotic influence Neville wielded in the Ministry. Public pressure – when gathered and focused – was more powerful than any sort of position of authority.

But one small detail bothered him. The speech hadn't at all mentioned the murders, instead pushing them to the side by the lofty (however true and credible) rhetoric. Perhaps Paul wanted to set a frame of mind for the press and public to receive the murders later – they would be hesitant to demand for harsher and more intrusive methods of law enforcement.

He moved toward the exit. The audience had finally settled down and was rumbling quietly as it shuffled out of the conference room, the quiet whisperings of the Ministry workers and reporters full of support for the charismatic and articulate Paul Greengrass.

The PPB had its support, but it needed a certain credibility that would cement it, harden it against the fear the PNRP spread to the public. He could lend it that credibility. Only a small minority knew that he had been stripped of much of his magic, and even they respected the name, the assurance of defense against the dark arts that the boy-who-lived provided. With his support, the PPB could show itself steady and strong against crime and evil – without needing to bind the essence of wizardry to needless regulations.

As he passed through the atrium, he saw a familiar figure leave the DMPA office one of the many floors above, walking down the stairs with arms filled with stacks of folders. The female figure was dressed in an examination coat similar to his own. He squinted at what he presumed to be the examiner Neville had brought in.

He moved closer to see who Neville had entrusted over _his_ expertise, his honesty and loyalty. The move meant that he was in some way suspect, believed to capable of dishonesty. It was to be expected, but Harry still felt a bit of anger at the thought. He tracked the young woman as she descended down the many flights of stairs.

His irritation blossomed into a sort of giddy hope. He saw a sort of bushy brown hair, a short, purposeful stride, and a certain manner of carriage that were all characteristic of an old friend.

He raced towards her, fighting to get at the bottom of the stairs before she joined the large mob.

The figure took no notice of his frantic struggling, and wedged herself into the mass of people. She headed toward the long line of people exiting through the fireplace, looking impatient.

"Hermione!" he called, turning back and hurrying his stride to match hers. He called her several more times as he pushed through the throngs of people still leaving the conference. The woman turned back, apparently hearing him for the first time. Something like dislike flashed through her eyes as they narrowed. Her face – pale and appealing in adulthood - darkened, and she scowled as she turned away, moving faster and escaping his reach.

Within seconds he lost sight of her. He stopped and swore in frustration, drawing an offended exclamation from a nearby worker. The woman could only have been Hermione Granger – long time friend, one time lover, and an old face he needed to steady him in the uncertain world he had found himself in. Why had she fled?

And more importantly – what was she doing at the beck and call of the vicious PNRP?


	6. Buried History

I don't own Harry Potter

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_**Lost Time**_

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Buried History

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"Can you believe it? It's outrageous! How _could _they? Years of dedicated, loyal service and they bring in a _prison_ warden to audit you?" Colin Creevey fumed. He was leaning on the inside of the door to Harry's office. It was early in the morning and they were gathered around before starting the day.

"Technically she's the Chief of Criminal Rehabilitation at Osbourne." Daphne said with a frown, crossing her long slender legs. She was sitting on his desk, arms propped up behind her.

"Can they do that?" Colin asked. "I mean, Harry's the best there is. If he's taking more than a few days, what hope does someone from a Reform Center have?"

"Apparently she's just as qualified as Harry. The law allows a Senior Detective to pick another Forensics investigator to audit the first if he or she feels that the current investigator is incompetent or suspect to provide altered results. Since all our other guys are out on the field, Longbottom can bring in anyone he wants from the outside." Daphne sighed. She looked at Harry, who was slouching in his office chair, resting his chin on his fist. "You're taking this awfully well."

"I'm not really surprised Neville would pull something like this. He doesn't exactly like me that much these days." He replied, fingering the photograph he had taken of Alan Stranger's corpse. He put it down and leaned back into the chair, interlocking his fingers. What was Hermione doing for Neville?

"He's always disliked you a bit. Ever since that mess with the two Death Eaters you defended yourself against. The man really thought you were guilty of something, and wanted you in jail for that. He only halted the investigation to avoid looking ridiculous." Creevey said.

"You have to be careful of him, now more then ever. He's heard you agreed to endorse us, so he'll be digging for dirt in your history to undermine you. Don't be surprised if he brings this all back. This auditing business can only be his first step in undermining your credibility." Daphne added in, looking worried. "You have to end this investigation and make it ironclad. Father's going to go public with your endorsement by next week, so there can be no question in your judgment. He's out for blood now." She drew an edition of the _Daily Prophet _from her robes and dropped it in front of him. It was folded to the back page, showing a small article circled in red.

**PNRP Massacred!**

_The People's National Reform Party suffered a major blow this morning when it was discovered that all but one of the nine remaining leading party officials have been found dead. _

_Neville Longbottom, Senior Detective in the newly renamed Department of Magical Peacekeeping Affairs, is the only sole remaining party leader. He was nominated by the party's caucus to lead their bid in this year's elections for Minister of Magic. Mr. Longbottom now lacks the support and guidance offered to him by the many high placed Ministry officials in the PNRP leadership. He was unavailable for comment._

_The news comes less than a week after two more PNRP leaders were found dead in similar circumstances, an event that was not widely circulated and is still under investigation. _

_These losses, however, are not only shared by the PNRP but by the Ministry itself. Four of the eleven lost to what almost certainly is murder are Department heads. Others are Detectives, Undersecretaries, and Senior Aurors._

_The Office of Forensics, headed by Chief of Forensics Harry Potter, has not commented on these new developments, but it is assumed that previous comments – that the murders are the result of a sole assailant – still stand. It is thought that all the deaths have occurred from the same, unknown cause._

_The murders come at a time of unrest between the government and terrorist factions. The Knights of Walpurgis have been suspected of the act, but there is no evidence as of yet to support this accusation…_

_--_

Harry walked through the hallways of the Ministry, dropping off the various preliminary reports to the Aurors and Junior Detectives who had requested them.

He didn't have to do it himself – Colin could have easily sent them out through the paper plane mail system, but he wanted to see if he could find Hermione and perhaps find out some more information on the future in general.

The recipients – all firm PNRP supporters – grabbed the reports out of his hand and wordlessly stuffed them away, leering at his retreating back. He rounded the entire DMPA, wasting as much time as he could listening to conversations and looking for the brown haired witch.

"Ah, looking for someone?"

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and looked down upon a thin, malicious looking man that looked vaguely familiar. Lichter, he remembered quickly. The man looked no worse for wear, he noticed disappointedly, having healed up impeccably since their last encounter.

The Magical Law Enforcer grinned horribly. "Neville wants a word. He's a bit disappointed on how you responded to his first offer and all."

"Where's your troll friend?" Harry asked in annoyance, staying in place. Lichter's lips thinned, and his nostrils flared.

"He's recovering in St. Mungos." He spat out after a few moments, glaring almost childishly at him.

"I'm very sorry to hear that." Harry replied in faux politeness. "He should have known an entire pitcher of firewhiskey would hurt in the morning." Lichter's left hand dropped to his wand, but Harry was quicker. His own wand was pressed into the Enforcer's chest before he had even reached into his pocket.

"Listen, Lichter. I might not be able to cast too many curses these days, but I know plenty of small charms that can starve your heart of blood and kill you faster than anyone here can help you. I'd hate to make good on my proposal to you last night."

He felt more than one wand press into his own back. "Drop the peashooter, Potter. We all know you're shooting blanks." A gruff voice said behind him. Harry gripped his wand tighter and watched Lichter for several more moments before putting his wand away.

He plastered an insincere smile on his face and bid the faint looking man goodbye as he was pushed into Neville's office. Harry felt himself pass through several heavy wards on the way in. The door shut behind him.

The Senior Detective was seated behind an imperious desk covered in papers. He looked up sharply at his entrance and put down the quill he was scribbling signatures with. The walls of his office were covered in newspaper clippings and the faces of criminals with red Xs through them. In the corner sat a small stone penseive.

"Sit down, Harry." The man intoned. Harry considered disobeying, but he sat himself down instead. There was no point in antagonizing the man further.

"What do you want, Neville? I'm working on the autopsies, and I'm confident I'll get the reports in by Friday. There's no reason to bring in an auditor on me – "

"There're plenty of reasons, most importantly the fact that you're talking with Paul Greengrass again. I hear you're going to endorse his party. I can't trust you to bring him to justice." Neville interrupted curtly, voice wavering with thinly concealed hatred.

"There's nothing wrong with Paul, Neville. You're grasping at straws." Harry replied, remaining calm. Something like worry fluttered through him as the veins in Neville's neck bulged as he stood and leaned forward on his desk.

"Am I, Harry? You know better than I how much Greengrass shielded the Death Eaters from capture. He obstructed _justice_ at every chance and appointed dark sympathizers everywhere." He ground out, face reddening in anger

"He was in the same position as Amos, Neville. Amos Diggory was fearless, sentenced scores of the enemy to Azkaban. But when they took his family he was worse than Paul. Greengrass never had the mark and didn't break a single law." Harry could feel Neville's magic stirring in the air. He squashed his childish fear and met Neville's eyes - the man wouldn't dare lay a finger on him in public.

A myriad of emotions passed through the shorter man – hatred, frustration, and finally despair.

Neville dropped back down into his chair and shot him a wary look before turning away completely. "You're in his pocket too. You won't see the truth. I made a mistake trying to intimidate you physically to help me. I'm not going to press charges on your assault of the two officers." He took a tone of an indulgence, acting as if he was doing him a favor.

"They attacked me, Neville. You couldn't charge me anyway. " Harry interrupted, but Neville had ceased listening to him. Harry wondered if that meant Neville believed he was beyond reason – a lost cause. That couldn't be a good thing.

"But you still understand threats. Remember when I told you I'd show the world what you did to those two Death Eaters? I'm making good on that, starting today. When does Greengrass plan to show you off to the press?"

Harry didn't want to sell out Paul. The man had given him his job and was fighting a crooked foe already. Giving out his political plans was betrayal.

"I'll ask again, Harry. When is he planning to show off his newest fan?"

He stared back stone faced as his stomach knotted uncomfortably. He didn't have much of a choice. Neville was forcing his hand and there wasn't anything he could do about it. What would Paul do if he found out? It felt childish, but he didn't think he could stand the man being _disappointed_ in him.

The Senior Detective sat silent for several moments, watching him struggle. "Harry, I have all the case files. Would you like to see the pictures? The evidence analyzed by your own coworkers – the ones they've suspiciously forgotten? The memories from all the people that saw the bodies?" He reached over and swirled the surface of the pensieve with his wandtip.

"And how long is this going to last?" Harry finally asked as a tortured looking torso rose from the silvery depths of the pensieve and began floating at its surface. "Do you really think you can hold something like this over me for the rest of my life?"

Neville chuckled, watching bits and pieces of a body join the floating mass of the eviscerated corpse. "Just until you can get me something to secure me the election, Harry. I understand your hesitation. Paul gave you your job back when you thought you'd have to go live in the Muggle world. He wanted to be your new father-in-law. Hell, he's your new best friend. And with the trust your new whore affords you I'm sure you'll dig up something on him." Eyes gleaming in triumph, he flicked his wand and dispelled the gory carnival of carnage.

Harry curled his fist around the armrest, beyond anger. A rage born of helplessness made his blood burn. "Maybe it's you, Neville. You got your nomination so you don't need them anymore. Then you can make it look like you're a poor, innocent target. Funny that the tragedy you're suffering from only supports your rhetoric. I bet you're angry the article didn't even make it the front page."

"Hardly." Neville offered, standing up and brushing himself off. "Maybe that kind of thinking gets you places in the PPB, but this party isn't run by Death Eaters. I don't pimp my daughter out for political gain."

Pouring himself tea, he offered a cup to Harry, who took one after some hesitation. He didn't want to appear petulant. It was better to swallow his pride than lose it completely.

---

Harry returned to his desk and dropped himself into the chair, staring at the closed door of his office.

He had been given a few more days to gather more information. The full details of his use to the PPB were due along with his report by Friday. It didn't seem possible for him to give Neville either of the documents.

Paul had told him he'd be holding a press conference somewhere in London to reveal the PPB's newest supporter. It would be a huge boost to the populist party, using his fame and background to capture the hearts of the people and assuage the fear generated by the PNRP that their success would mean a return of Dark Wizards.

Dark magic, it seemed, had all been wiped out. Knockturn Alley had been torn down and reconstructed into the respectable Cobblepot Alley, a residential district with small shops intermingling between the upscale apartments. The roads were literally paved with gold in some areas.

Heavy restrictions had been placed on the Hogwarts Curriculum, and the Restricted Section had been moved to a separate part of the castle. All citizens had to reregister their wands every three years and pass an inspection that would screen the wood for traces of dark magic.

The laws had been put into effect shortly after Voldemort's defeat with little resistance, which made Neville's proposed changes even more frighteningly plausible. Perhaps the man desired the same turmoil that had lingered after the Dark Lord's second downfall – it would easily justify his draconian measures.

Neville's seemingly total lack of concern for his autopsy reports indicated something more important at stake. He looked at the photo of Alan Stranger's corpse, vowing to find the link between the Detective and his suddenly dead party leaders.

He continued holding the photograph, eyes taking in every detail as his mind wandered. None of Dr. Potter's tests revealed details so far. Everything seemed normal – the man appeared to have simply fallen over into death - forever stilled.

His eyebrows furrowed as a fleeting thought captured his attention. He leapt to feet and made his way over to the wall of autopsy pictures his older self had created. Each and every one of the bodies blurred and jerked occasionally, the limbs twitching and rattling, eyes flying open while their jaws opened and shut in a horrific likeness of tortured screaming. It was a terrifying display, but the fact that the bodies moved in the pictures simply meant the dead were wizards, their corpses leaking magic that had been captured into the camera's film.

The corpse of Alan Stranger was completely still in the photograph. The image appeared completely muggle in his hand.

"Colin!" Harry called, navigating between the various dead PNRP leaders to stand above Stranger's gurney.

The young man poked his head into the examination room after a few moments, resolutely avoiding the dead bodies and looking straight at him. "What do you need, Harry?"

"Come here, take a look at this." Colin entered and closed the door behind him, looking slightly sick at the prospect of getting near so many corpses. Harry waited patiently as the mousey secretary nervously scampered his way toward him. He held out the photograph.

Colin reluctantly took it, somehow anticipating its morbidity. He stiffened as he caught a glimpse of it. "It's a dead guy," he said, letting it fall to his side.

"Thanks, Colin. I hadn't noticed," he said dryly, "Look again. What's wrong with the picture?"

He brought the photograph back up and gave it another glance, his eyes falling from the image to the body by Harry's side. "It's Alan Stranger, isn't it? The Hit-Wizard, or somewhat?"

Harry nodded, motioning for him to continue.

Colin's eyebrows furrowed and Harry could tell his vast enthusiasm for photography was finally replacing his fear of corpses and all things dead. It had become increasingly clear the only reason Colin was working in the Office of Forensics was Harry Potter and the fact that he worked on scratchy paper and stamps – not chest cavities.

"Wait – wasn't Alan a wizard? I don't remember his forms marking him as a full Squib. He was a Hit-Wizard after all, so why isn't the photograph moving?"

"That's my question. Is there any way you can end up with a muggle picture like this?" Harry asked.

Colin paused in thought. "If it wasn't developed correctly, but that's never happened before. The developers we use in the Ministry are smart guys – they're held under countless confidentiality spells and watched night and day. They've never screwed up." He held the picture closer to his face, gazing at something in the background.

"See? It _is_ a wizarding photograph," Colin continued, "Look at this." He handed the picture back to Harry. "Look at your wand in the background. See it on the desk? It's got a slight blur to its ends – that's where the magic of the core interacts with the world. Cameras catch that."

Harry's hand brushed the polished instrument in his pocket as he looked back down on the picture. The wood was smooth and unmarred. It appeared Dr. Potter had taken better care of the instrument once his magic had been all but stripped from him.

"There's nothing wrong with the picture. So if there's no movement in the photograph then there's no magic being captured by the camera. But Alan Stranger was clearly a wizard." Harry gazed at the pale white corpse. He was glad Colin had no medical training – it was almost painfully obvious the body had been stitched up messily and crudely.

Colin shrugged, turning somewhat. Harry caught him eying the door. "Wait just a moment. Let's say the body had been around for some time. Would you say the magic would leak out enough over time to result in a still image?"

"I guess it's possible. I don't know how long it takes for all the magic to drain out of the body. I sort of stick with living people, you see." The younger man was beginning to look restless and it became clear there wasn't much point keeping him around much longer.

"Alright Colin, you can go." The secretary bobbed his head hastily and quickly shuffled his way out the examination room.

The explanation only raised more questions. With the bodies still far from decomposing, there had to have been preserving charms – the same sort used on bodies for funerals. He had casted those far too often than he would have liked to remember. The charms lasted up to two weeks at best. Were the members dead for two weeks?

If that was true, then the members had been killed far in advanced, preserved, and replaced with imposters using polyjuice potions. With the bodies on hand, it wasn't difficult to procure pieces of hair. The whole thing just seemed unlikely.

He took the camera and took a shot of each and every corpse, leaving his wand in the frame as reference. The camera flashed eight times, the light illuminating the long dead officials. All looked more or less the same as Stranger. Empty shells devoid of feeling. Simply as if they had ceased to be.

Even if the bodies had been dead for some time, they had to have been killed in some manner. Merely falling dead without physical or magical symptoms was seen only in the victims of Dementor attacks. Harry clearly remembered the soulless husks of the worse than dead simply giving up in the dark of the night. Their hearts would stop simply for lack of purpose.

But even they had their marks. The impossibly sharp mandibles of a Dementor left gruesome punctures on the faces of its prey.

Harry looked up from the lifeless eyes of the nearest corpse and covered the body with a sheet. He did the same with the rest of the dead and retreated to his office.

---

"What adventures lay in wait for our hero?" A voice called behind him.

Harry tried to stop the smile that began to grow on his face. He only succeeded into making it into a rather unconvincing grimace. "Tonks."

"Oh come on, Potter. You know you're happy to see me." The Auror caught up him as he began walking down the steps from the Peacekeeping Affairs floor. She grabbed his arm with both hands and beamed at him as they descended the stairs.

"I try, Tonks. But you're trouble. Last time I saw you, I got into barfight with corrupt Enforcers. I also remember you taking Zabini's form. How'd that feel?"

Tonks shuddered. "Disgusting. I had to guess most of his body, and thankfully I can't really say what's under all those clothes, but my prejudices sort of worked against me. Err, him. I think smaller was more comfortable."

Harry chose not to comment, giving her an odd side glance.

"Oh, you. Always being so judgemental. What happened to the cute, amiable boy I met years ago?" She asked, pulling on her hair and lengthening it into a bright pink curtain. Several wizards paused in genuine astonishment before being pushed along by the crowd.

Harry bit back the urge to tell her the number of people the boy had killed, but settled with a emotionless grunt. "He grew up."

"Yeah, yeah. So did I. Haven't changed a bit. So what's the news on our mystery killer?" She stopped him and turned to face him.

Harry watched her for a few moments, surprised at the change of topic "You're looking for information before I publish it to the entire department?"

Tonks looked at the ground for a few moments in embarrassment before stepping closer and looking at him pleadingly. "I need a little help. I'm the political black sheep in the department surrounded by PNRP wolves. If I can get some information it'd help with the boss and all that. Do you have any useful information?"

"_Yes_, there _is_ information and you'll wait until _Friday_ when it's ready for distribution to the rest of the Aurors," a sharp voice interrupted.

Daphne Greengrass appeared behind Harry and stared at Tonks with distaste and poorly concealed mistrust. The Auror's expression faltered only slightly and continued looking at Harry. "It'd be unfair and unethical if you were to be given the information ahead of time – especially since it has neither been checked, referenced, nor even cleared by his supervisor."

Tonks finally looked down at Harry's superior, her smile turning falsely sweet and apologetic. She turned back to Harry after a few moments. "My apologies, Harry. It's a bad idea that might get us both in trouble. I'll see you later." With that, she turned heel and walked away with a seemingly unconcerned air. Daphne watched until she disappeared into a fireplace before glancing at Harry, eyes hard and wary.

"Be careful, Harry. Nymphadora Tonks may or may not be a friend, but even if she is, she reports to Neville. He has ways to turn even the most committed of family into loyal spies. Keep your guard up around any of his Aurors."

Harry wanted to protest, but he knew the truth of her words. His own reality was too similar. "I'll keep that in mind."

Daphne's look softened at his pained expression. "Hey, cheer up. I know all this cloak and dagger stuff is all pretty stressful. I bet you never thought politics was going to be so dangerous." She grinned. "Remember, if you have any problems, tell Father. He needs your commitment."

He hid the guilt that passed through him at those words. He was letting the man down. But if he didn't, his current life would be ruined. It would be impossible for him to get back to his own time if he was in whatever facilities passed as jails in his strange, twisted future. He decided to press for some information.

He leaning forward and lowered his voice. "Do you know when I'm being introduced?"

Daphne stood silent for a few moments before nodding. "The PPB is going to have you introduced next Wednesday, on the Ides of March. There's going to be a large press conference outside Gringotts. The press knows, but we're not giving a date or location on the day of the event. They still have no idea what it's about, but they're all dying to get any sort of information. Only my father and a few others know who is being introduced, so all they've managed to coax out of the lower party members is that there's going to be a new high profile member."

What would Harry do as a high profile member? He hoped it wouldn't be anything beyond using his face and fame as a form of support. He needed to avoid interaction with the greater public as much as possible if he was going to maintain his secrets.

He looked back at the expectant looking Daphne, who seemed to be waiting for a response. He grinned playfully.

"The Ides of March? Are you sure I'm just being introduced? I'd rather not end up with multiple knife wounds."

She laughed good-naturedly and played along. "And leave the killer who's been wiping out our enemy uncaught? That'd almost be helpful."

Harry shrugged. "_Carpe diem_. Binns said it over and over again. Best way to take care of a problem – magical or otherwise."

Daphne squeezed his arm and walked past him towards the fireplace. Harry watched her stroll away casually. She flipped her hair out of the way and smiled appreciatively at him over her shoulder. "It's a shame we're honest folk."

Harry looked up at the office where he knew Neville was working, undoubtedly working long into the night to find some way of manipulating another poor soul into his play for power.

"Shame indeed."

---

The image of himself, Hannah, Ron, and Hermione waved blissfully at Harry through the paper boundary that separated them from the bitter future that Harry was beginning to fear he'd never escape.

The date behind the photo placed its inhabitants at the age of twenty-two, four years after the supposed defeat of Voldemort. His older – or perhaps, younger now that he was in the future – it was so difficult to keep his memories and those which he imagined were Dr. Potter's separate – self had just recently finished his muggle studies and had enrolled in St. Mungo's program in Investigative Medicine.

The sound of soft footsteps alerted him to Hannah's presence behind him. She walked around the small, ornate couch and sat next to him, smiling at the picture in his hands.

"Happier days, I suppose." Harry said quietly, looking at Hannah's wistful face. She nodded sadly. Lifting her wand, she deftly left a glowing message in the air.

Harry looked away, uncomfortable with the question. "Yeah, I miss him. He was my best friend." But he wasn't dead yet. Not in his world. Ron was just another missing character in the strange reality he had stumbled into. He didn't have any sorrow.

Hannah pulled his hand into her own, squeezing it carefully. The honest warmth of her being gave him little comfort. Dishonesty tended to put a damper on close emotional ties.

Harry used his other hand to replace the photograph back into the album he had found in one of the living room cabinets. He removed another that caught his eye.

Here, it was only him, Hannah, and Ron. Hermione seemed to be missing in the photograph. The date put it only a year and a half later. At twenty-three, his older self was revolutionizing magical forensics in a way that was rewriting all previous knowledge of the subject. He had written his first book on the subject and was well on his way to being awarded an honorary degree by St. Mungo's.

Hannah seemed to realize the emptiness in the picture as well. Another message materialized by her side, accompanied by another squeeze of her hand.

"I wish I could talk to her. I've tried, but she's hostile. She's also investigating my work as an outside auditor. No one can believe it." He explained the whole situation to her, releasing his frustrations to the woman beside him.

Her inability to properly respond was frustrating at times, but Harry found her listening invaluable. And though the silence in the house was unnerving without proper responses to his voice, he found himself depending on her to let out what little information he could.

Hannah looked at him for a few moments. Biting her lip, she seemed to come to a decision and left the couch, running upstairs silently with her bare feet. Harry watched her curiously and followed her up the stairs.

She emerged out of their bedroom with a small letter, the crème colored envelope marked only with Hannah's name and their address. He looked at Hannah and couldn't understand the importance. She led him back downstairs and pressed it into his hand. He looked at it for a few moments before finding his eyes averted and thoughts on more mundane matters.

Hannah gave a silent 'oh' of understand and pulled her wand. With a slight flick of the oak wand, he found himself able to focus. The notice-me-not charm worked exceptionally effectively on squibs and muggles. Still somewhat puzzled, he turned over the letter in his hand, instantly recognizing it as one in the pile of post he had found on the living room table the first morning in this new time.

Pulling it open, he took out the small note within.

_Dearest Hannah,_

_How odd that I write regularly to you of all. _

_I make no secret of my dislike for your husband. He has ruined my life in ways he can never understand. But then, perhaps he does. And yet, I cannot help but keep you, my closest, perhaps only true friend – the one that shares a bed with the man responsible for my misfortunes! – no further than the scrawl of my quill away. _

_I question my motives so often I have difficulty completing these letters. I remember our history. When we were all friends, you, Ginny, and myself always shared everything. We taught you to trust again when you where attacked by Death Eaters. When Ginny was killed by the Knights of Walpurgis and Ron disappeared into rage and vengeance you were there. And when he never came back from the PNRP meeting, found dead at the hands of the dark wizards he hunted under my very nose – you were there. _

_Your last letter had me thinking of all this, of Harry Potter. Your husband - you bear his name. I ask why you still love this man. Your platitudes mean nothing. He will do you no good in the end. He took my husband, my career, and my happiness. _

_Don't hesitate to think he won't spare yours._

_Love, _

_Hermione _

Harry's eyes remained on the name written delicately at the bottom of the letter. His old friend had specifically charmed it with a powerful muggle-repulsion charm, which explained why he hadn't at all noticed it the first time he had come across it. The insult was there.

"You've been writing regularly to Hermione? Without telling me?"

Hannah's eyes dropped, but Harry stopped and didn't press any further. He didn't have much in the way of anger. Whatever tirade he had been about to launch into was not his. He extinguished the flaming anger of betrayal with cool, interested logic.

Hermione hated him because she thought he took her career, husband, and happiness. Daphne had mentioned she was qualified as a Forensic investigator. Harry's position could have somehow derailed Hermione's ambitions, relegating her to her current position as warden for a criminal rehabilitation institute. What worried him the most as he reread the letter was Hermione's mention of Ron.

If the letter was true, Ron had been a vengeful member of the PNRP bent on avenging a murdered Ginny before he himself had been killed. Hermione seemed to blame it on Harry – either for killing him directly or being a factor in allowing it to happen.

He turned back to Hannah, who watched him nervously as he deliberated over the actions of his older self.

"Thank you for showing me this, Hannah." He said with a smile. He tried to soothe her by pulling her close, to which she quickly responded to by melting against him. He ran his hands through her long, soft blond hair. "Hermione's simply confused. She's angry and confused and she's lashing out. Don't you worry – I'll sort it out."

He'd need to prepare his report soon. If Hermione finished hers before him, than he'd be left at the mercy of her biased investigations. His expertise and competence would also be called into doubt. He needed to publish the information he'd learned before Hermione took credit – judging by her letter, she was out to prove she was a better Forensics investigator. Along with the report he'd have to hand in the date and location of his introduction to the PPB party base.

He waited until Hannah's soft breathing became regular and soft before carrying her to bed. Placing her under the covers, he watched her for several moments before returning downstairs. Pulling out the half-written report he'd found on Harry's desk, he began to describe his findings.

His quill seemed to move on its own accord, describing medical jargon he had familiarized himself with in the past week and others he only vaguely remembered. Glancing at past reports, words and phrases seemed to slip through his consciousness from a distant void, bringing with it an authenticity reflected in a professional examination. Hours later, his writings had surpassed all of Dr. Potter's previous accounts in length and detail, filled with various notes, subnotes, and conjecture for every step of the murder's procedure.

On a separate piece of paper, he scribbled out a date and time along with the words _Outside Gringotts_ and attached it to the report, folding it between the other pages. Giving it one last regretful glance, he summoned Hannah's owl and sent off the package.

---

Harry arrived at the Ministry late.

He descended down the stairs to the depths of his Department with Hermione and Neville on his mind. He supposed they were collaborating at that very second, picking apart his report for signs of his incompetence.

"You're running behind schedule." Colin said without looking up, a dozen or so of quills in front of him neatly writing on different sheets of paper, duplicating the work he was doing with his right hand.

"The dead don't complain." He shot back, not really in the mood to be chastised. Colin looked at him with slight surprise before continuing his work without a word.

Entering his office, he shut the door behind him and dropped into the comfortable chair Dr. Potter had earned for himself. He searched through his incoming mail with slight apprehension, heart pounding at the thought that Neville and Hermione had tore through his work and were preparing to throw him off his job or worse.

He pulled his wand out and dropped it on the heavy oak in front of him, staring at it with sudden fury. He hated the fact that he was _fearful_, that his heart was actually thudding in his chest, that his existence so far had been nothing but scurrying around for the whims of others – terrified of the wrath of pencil pushers. He had battled and cast dark magic so _vile_ and disgusting that it seeped into your very being, faced that green light of death more than even the most senior of Aurors, and clawed and torn at the very fibers of life simply to survive.

What had he been _reduced_ to? Was this Voldemort's doing? Perhaps this was his last blow against Harry Potter, to take away what had rescued him from the cupboard and propelled him to greatness. And now he was scrambling to cling on to the very last connection to this gift he had lost. Dr. Potter's life was a torture of its own. He had been a twisted man molded by his life, turned into an adulterer, terrible husband, and ruthless vigilante.

Rage filled him as he slapped the holly wand off his table, the feeling of loss elicited by its presence too much to bear. It skittered away on the floor and disappeared under the closed door of his office.

Placing his head in his arms he shut his eyes and tried to think of nothing at all. No magic – what was he trying to do? How could he ever find a way back to his own time if he couldn't even cast a proper cleaning charm?

The _click-clack _of heels hitting the stone floor outside made him look up before his door opened to reveal Daphne Greengrass. She was holding several papers – a copy of his report he guessed – in her hand, her mouth set thin and her eyes hard. She stepped up to his desk and pointed furiously at the cover page.

"Do you know what this is?" She hissed, her head slightly cocked. Harry hadn't ever seen his superior angry, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His problems seemed far worse at the moment.

"No. I only wrote it." He said truthfully, his voice biting. Daphne's delicate face reddened and her eyes narrowed further.

"Don't play games with me Harry, you submitted this without my clearance. You went over my head and distributed a report that's neither been checked, referenced, or reviewed for any sort of errors."

Harry shrugged. "I made a mistake."

Daphne leaned over his desk, her hair falling past her chin. "No Harry. You _fucked up_. The press is going to have a field day with this bullshit. A conspiracy with high cabinet members dead for weeks? That they've been impersonated all this time?"

Harry stood, looking down at her with resentment. "It was just _conjecture_. I made that clear."

"_It doesn't matter._ Your conjecture means fact for the rest of Britain. Do you understand that? You just added enough drama to this case to land this on the front page again. Reporters are going to be frothing at the mouth when this gets released. We're going to get _hounded_."

"What's your point? That's the PR Office's problem. You think I care?"

"This is about more than just you. Before, the PNRP could say that a killer savagely murdered their leaders. Complete mystery. You gave them ammunition. Now their leaders were killed as part of a conspiracy theory, replaced with polyjuiced imposters. What are the people going to do? Show sympathy."

Harry scowled, walking around his desk to face her directly. "So is that what this is about? Your election? That's all you care about isn't it?"

Daphne didn't move, lifting her chin. "Yeah. That's all I care about. You know? Maybe it's wrong to ignore the very real possibility a revenge bent, crazy Neville Longbottom is going to come into power and make life unbearable for me and my family."

Harry laughed in her face as he remembered his own recent memories of the Greengrass family."Oh, alright. Play the sympathy card. That's what you did after the war with everyone else. I'd expect as much from - "

"From _what_?" Daphne interrupted quietly, voice trembling with ferocity. "Say it. You would _expect_ as much from a little Death Eater whore. _That's_ what you're about to say isn't it? Fuck you, Harry. My father is a poor judge of character."

She made to leave but Harry grabbed her arms and pulled her back so that he was between her and the door. She tried to tear her hands away but Harry's grip was too strong. "That's not what I meant to say."

Finally getting her hands free, she rubbed her wrists and looked back at him coldly. "But you thought it. And as much as I hate to admit it it's why we need you."

Harry put his hands on her shoulders to reassure her. "And I'm willing to help. That's why I'm going to stand up in front of all those reporters and pledge my support to your father's party."

She looked down, looking slightly awkward and embarrassed after her tirade. "I know, I know. I never did thank you for doing this." After several moments she looked up, smiling mischievously this time. Her violet eyes captured his own, and before he knew it she was close – too close, her body nearly flush with his own. "You fucked up, but I owe you."

Delicate fingers pressed into his back, pulling him closer and closer, her breath playing on his face. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had someone so close to him. His brief relationships were all cut short by the widening war.

Anxious hands responding in kind, pulling her head close. She captured his mouth with a hungry kiss. It was wrong. He was married. But _Harry_ wasn't even twenty. _He_ was single. With hardly a thought he lifted her onto the desk, eliciting a surprised moan as he placed trailing kisses down her neck.

His hand moved across her thigh, disappearing under her skirt as it slid higher and higher. Harry cut off the slight gasp with another crushing kiss, fingers trailing through her hair in anticipation. She reached under his robe, reaching for his belt.

Guilt began tempering his excitement. He might not be married, but Hannah was. She was married to him, and regardless of what he thought that bond stood. Her face filled his vision behind closed eyes, her genuine, loving smile bringing him so much shame he grabbed Daphne's hand and broke the kiss.

"I can't _do_ this. I'm a married man… this… this is _wrong_." He said softly, avoiding her eyes. He stepped back from her, leaving her looking lost and angry again on his desk, clothes disheveled.

"_Wrong?_ Wrong, Harry?" She said with a frustrated voice, her face marred by a scowl. "I didn't know you cared. What made you start now? What changed?"

Harry turned around and walked away, unable to answer. What could he say? He had changed.

He walked out of the examination hall while smoothing his robes. Colin looked up from his paperwork with mild curiosity.

"Where're you going? It's barely 11."

Harry hurried up the stairs, not bothering to look back. "Early lunch, maybe take the rest of the day off. I don't know."

Opening the door to the renamed Magical Law Enforcement offices, he navigated past the crowds of Aurors, noting Neville was nowhere to be seen. Leaving the department, he crashed into a surprised Tonks, who promptly tumbled forward him.

Harry caught her by reflex, keeping her close to his chest a bit longer than necessary before setting her back on her feet. "You alright?" He asked, suddenly wanting to do anything but talk. His body burned with want.

Tonks wobbled a bit but grinned, fingering a lock of her hair. "If you wanted me that bad you could have just asked." Harry noticed the hair had changed to a dirty blond – the exact same shade as Hannah's.

Before he could answer, she flashed him another smile and sauntered around him, purposefully bumping into his arm as she strolled away.

---

The fire swirled around Harry as he spun through the floo system. He left the green flames of the fireplace with a graceful step, appearing in his living room.

Hannah looked up from the food she was making in the kitchen. She was still in her healer uniform. Harry knew she came home for lunch – he guessed her lack of speech made it difficult for her to socialize with others in the hospital staff.

She had scarcely finished creating a pleasant greeting with her wand when Harry closed the distance between them and held her close, shamelessly taking her in a searing kiss. She gave a muffled noise of surprise before relaxing into his form, deepening the kiss and encircling his back with her arms.

Harry mimicked his earlier actions with Daphne, roughly placing her on the counter while his hands roamed her lithe body. She was his. This was _his_. _This_ was right_._ He smiled into her lips as she gasped in bliss, a slight shudder of pleasure rolling through her body under his arms as he traced upwards the indent of her spine.

Lust burned through his veins as he explored her delicate neck, nipping slightly at her ear. He slipped a hand under her Healer robes, feeling the smooth skin beneath. Her breath was becoming hoarse in his ear. This was his _wife_. Her beautiful hair flowed around her pleased face as he played with her, manipulated her senses. How could anyone betray such a gorgeous creature?

His own robes somehow came off, his buttoned shirt following soon after. He longed to feel her skin against his own. Crushing her lips, he tore off her clothes. She stiffened somewhat against, but he paid her no mind, holding her tight against his body.

Harry cupped her under her bra, making her retract somewhat from him. Raw desire filled his mind as he ripped it away, rubbing his thumb around her mound. His hand pushed up higher, making her squirm with anxiety. He clamped his lips on her once more stifling the objections.

He slid his hand under her underwear, causing her to push against his chest and increase her muffled noises of protest. He was lost in a fervor, impatience in every fiber of his being. He unbuckled his own belt as he tried to force off her last article of clothing.

He missed her hand grasping for the wand on the counter. A loud bang filled his ears as he found himself blasted away, soaring through the air. He felt his back crashing into the mantle above the fireplace, knocking over all the photographs as he slumped to the ground.

A retreating, distant sob was all he could hear as his vision swam, the world contorting and twisting as he recovered from his fall. He pulled himself to a sitting position, dizzily avoiding all the glass shards around him.

The photos of himself, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were burning in the fire, the occupants oblivious to their fiery fate. The paper blackened and curled away to reveal several other photographs behind it, including his wedding and graduation pictures. He cursed and tried to pull them out, only to hiss as the heat singed his hand.

Magic could have helped. His wand could have pulled all the photos, repaired them, and settled them back into mended frames. Magic could have defended him against humiliation. Magic could restore to him the vitality he had left behind seemingly forever.

In the end, he managed to save just one. It was a small, recent photograph of himself – Dr. Potter, rather. It was the same picture in the back cover of his text books, the intently curious examiner peering into his very soul.

---

Harry returned to the Ministry of Magic.

He descended down into the darkness of the staircase and past the empty desk where Colin usually sat. Entering the examination room, he walked by rows of dead cadavers looking heavenward with soulless eyes.

In the far end sat Daphne, filling paperwork neatly on a clipboard, checking numbers against the tags on the many cold, white feet resting on bare metal. She saw him before he made a sound, dropping her clipboard wordlessly with a smile.

He had her on an empty gurney within seconds, pressing her against the cold steel carelessly as she clawed at his back, meeting his frustration with eagerness. Her robes disappeared, fully this time, her skillful hands taking from him what Hannah would not. She sighed into his neck as he mercilessly took what he wanted, goading him on for more.

Her body writhed beneath him, long legs tightly wrapping around his waist as sharp nails dug into his skin. Violet orbs captured him whole and left him breathless. She was the picture of elegant, pureblooded beauty, and right there, bodies intertwined, her pale skin one with his, black hair flowing against black, he knew he had been wrong.

He hadn't changed at all.

* * *

Review?


	7. Ignition

I don't own Harry Potter

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_**Lost Time**_

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Ignition

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_Liberal Politics and the Era of Feel-Good Deception_

_Paul Greengrass, the electrifying, charming, charismatic politician. Paul Greengrass, the breath of fresh air, the suave Senior Undersecretary, the speaker of the decade. Paul Greengrass, just what magical Britain needs._

_That is what we've been hearing all along, isn't it? Ask the typical teenager or twenty-something and they'll give you a description very similar to the one above. What draws people our age to Paul Greengrass? Why does practically everyone under the age of thirty seem unified in the belief that Paul Greengrass should (and will) be the next Minister of Magic?_

_It is important to first explore what draws young voters to the PPB in the first place. Why don't we see such support for the PNRP? Younger wizards and witches are used to change; change is all they know. Fresh out of Hogwarts and new to the world, they watch mesmerized the passing tides of life. When someone speaks of change, they listen. Even if it's not broken, they are more than willing to fix it._

_Young people like the PPB because the party proclaims that morality is too relative to really get in a huff about. No child enjoys the rules imposed on him by his parents - the same goes for the government. Who is the government to tell me if I can do this ritual or that, if I have to take that horribly biased Darts Arts reeducation class, or what I can do with my wand. If you want complete moral relativism – and young people usually do – then visit your friends at the local PPB Headquarters. Try not to trip over the bone white masks. _

_The first, most obvious reason anyone would vote for Greengrass is that he is a pureblood with damning ties to some very shady characters. Right? In such an oversensitive, pluralistic generation, young people make every effort to appear as diverse and tolerant as possible. Doesn't it make sense to vote for a pureblood supremacist so as not to appear hatemongering?_

_If that's not it, then what is it? Could it be that he has some great policies stashed away somewhere? It must be all the relaxing he plans to do on curse restrictions. But alas, we'll never know - his supporters don't seem to either. _

_If it isn't his past, or his substance, then what is it? Greengrass is a great speaker with utopian ideas. Being surrounded by great speakers in the schools of magic, young people love good rhetoric. They love to be told that they can do anything as long as they are given the opportunity; they love to be told that it's not their fault they are in a bad situation; they love to be told the silly government keeps them down by restricting their creative magics. And that is exactly what Paul Greengrass preaches. (We don't have time to discuss what his old master preached). _

_In the end, the reality remains that Greengrass has been rated as the most liberal official in office. He barely escaped charges in the last war. He favors loosening the Trace, relaxing ritual restrictions, hampering the arrests of suspected Dark Wizards in the name of rights, and treating the heinous criminals of our society in psychological facilities. Don't call them prisoners. Sorry lady, the man who tortured your little girl to death is a patient now. _

_Why is it only the old guard, the thousands of men and women who stood guard against evil when the dark forces threatened our existence, that support what may be our only hope?_

_Look past the charisma and youth appeal of this man and see him for what he really is – a liberal Dark Wizard who's slithering his way into office. _

"Neville owns Goldstein too." Daphne said somewhat flippantly, shoving the paper back into a narrow satchel by her side. She had just finished doing inventory on the cadavers he had been working on. Or should have been. He had been feeling sluggish and tired. "Not a small loss either. He wrote all our best editorials in the _Prophet_."

Harry remembered Tonks pointing the former Ravenclaw out, describing him as religious admirer of Paul Greengrass. The Senior Detective was getting disturbingly good at making pawns for himself. Things were slowly slipping out of his understanding and control, and he wasn't sure if he liked where everything was headed.

His introduction was set to occur the next day, but already he could feel the tendrils of disaster following his every moment. Neville had pulled him in his office again, demanding more information. The man hadn't at all mentioned his report, which left Harry in an uncertain position. He didn't know which was worst – his report being wrong or right. A conspiracy to murder and impersonate top PNRP would only further destabilize the political climate.

"Is there any possibility my report is actually true?" Harry asked after a moment of thought. "It'd be devastating to the PPB if your people were somehow involved in this."

Daphne frowned. "_Our_ people, Harry. And as much as I hate to say it, it could be a fringe dark group that wants us in power to make life easier for them. We don't have any illusions about our goals. Decriminalization of all those spells and a more tolerant approach to magic will unfortunately end up benefiting some undesirable groups. It's just that we feel the draconian measures in place today are stifling to progress and take away the freedoms of everyday people. We can't give up freedom for security. Nor can we let fundamentalist dark wizards ruin our name by working under our banner."

Harry watched his superior carefully, somewhat impressed by the almost perfect reiteration of the party's platform. She had a frustrated, angry look on her face, fists clenched in helplessness.

"Why don't you report it to the Aurors?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head. "I can't just give them a list of names. They'd go on a rampage and give them all a hard time. Father gave me and several other trusted people information on all the possible perpetrators earlier today – We're to explore the likelihood of any of these people being behind the attacks and remove them from the organization before they taint our legitimate reputation. Once they're disengaged, we'll give whatever information we have to the Aurors."

She moved closer to him, grinning. "That'll destroy any chance Neville has on ruining our campaign. The only possible thing that could drag us down the polls is if Minister Quinn himself threw his support to Neville. He's the only Ministry official whose opinion really matters. Fortunately, the man's neutral to a fault and guarded by Hit-Wizards against any sort of magical manipulation."

Harry found himself not sharing her intense enthusiasm. He was getting tired of all the political intrigue, the backstabbing, the plotting… More than anything he wanted his wand back and real dark wizards to drag into the harsh, crimson-tinged light of justice. The baseless, terrified whispers of _the_ _dark arts_ and _evil_ made him want to sneer.

"So we have a clear shot at victory. And then?" Victory. What did it mean for him? He'd have done his part in avoiding a monstrous government from oppressing the people. But he'd forgotten where he'd come from. This _wasn't_ his home. He wasn't married, Ron wasn't dead, and Voldemort was still out there. He had yet to fulfill the prophecy. The thought of abandoning what defined his very life unsettled him.

"And then, we'll celebrate." Daphne said, leaving no doubt about what she meant. Something hot and heavy filled his mind as he remembered beads of sweat clinging to alabaster skin, her writhing body sinuously entangling his own, drawing him deeper and deeper into oblivion.

It had been three days, but he could scarcely think about anything else. It shamed him, burned his very soul every time he crept into bed after Hannah had slept and left before she woke.

She looked in his eyes, the purple orbs capturing him whole and leaving him breathless. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Harry. You came back, ego bruised and left wanting by your own wife…"

Bruises in his back from Hannah's spell flared in pain at the thought, and he felt a surge of annoyance at the presumptuousness in her voice. The belief that she _understood._

"Get out of my head," he snarled suddenly, pushing her back to the counter. It wasn't a literal accusation, but then again – without magic, he'd have no idea if she _was_ rifling through his memories. Regardless, he didn't like the thought of anyone trying to rationalize him.

Daphne caught herself quickly, looking as if she had expected the outburst. Pushing her hair back, she dropped the satchel to the ground and smoothed her robes, looking at him somewhat demurely.

"You don't have to keep it in Harry. I'm here. I can talk back." She spoke again quickly, interrupting his angry retort. "I know it's not her fault. It's a terrible burden she carries and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. A curse that binds her tongue as long as her very heart beats. It's sick what they did to her, and I don't blame her for the cause of your ills. But you have to look after yourself. Don't live in misery out of some misplaced sense of duty."

He couldn't deny her words, but something in him _did_ feel something for Hannah. The information about the curse that had struck her mute made him swell with sympathy. He didn't want her to get hurt. He wanted to see her happy. But was that truly love? Or was it a sympathetic pity that came out of a sense of obligation to make up for Dr. Potter's sins?

Daphne walked up to him once more and left a chaste kiss on his cheek before disappearing out the door.

Harry's eyes remained on the spot where she had been standing. He rubbed his eyes and massaged his temples, feeling a headache coming. It took him several minutes before he noticed the satchel left behind. Neville's threats drifting through his mind, he reached into the simple looking bag and pulled out several folders.

He flipped through the papers inside, seeing information on dozens and dozens of men and women. Names, professions, addresses, and known associations were all neatly printed on the thick, handwritten parchment. A small wizarding photo was attached to each sheet, revealing scores of confused looking people.

Harry doubted his own ability to cast duplication charms – his wand wasn't even in his pocket anymore. Stacking the folders back on each other, he left the examination room and dropped the papers on Colin's desk, barking a brief command to the busily working boy and retreating to his office.

Colin brought two identical stacks back in only a few minutes, nodding his head at Harry's thanks. Dropping one set into the satchel, he gave the bag to Colin and instructed him to give it to Daphne the next time she stopped by.

The information inside would hopefully be enough to hold Neville over for a few weeks. That would give him some time to finally do some more research on his own lack of magic and find some answers. He still had hardly a clue on how he'd arrived and had no hope of returning until he got his magic back.

Once the elections finished he would be free of Neville. An elected Greengrass would certainly allow him a leave of absence. He considered visiting Professor McGonagall, or even Dumbledore's portrait if the man had awakened yet.

Shaking himself free of thoughts of his own time, he pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write out a short speech of endorsement for his introduction, promising himself he'd take the rest of the day off and sleep.

---

The next day had Harry wake up feeling energized and slightly excited. With hardly a glance at the sleeping figure by his side, he leapt to his feet and made himself ready for a public appearance. Dressed in the best robes he could find, he clipped on his badge proudly and flooed to the Ministry.

The introduction was to be sudden and with little prior notice. The press was to be notified a mere fifteen minutes before, allowing the entire event to be set in secrecy. Harry knew it was all for naught.

He tried to keep away from Neville, but the man had taken him to his office shortly after he had arrived. Hermione Granger stood in the corner, sipping on some water. She ignored his glances completely, in favor of showering Neville with a smile as he sat down behind his desk.

The Senior Detective squeezed her hand briefly before turning his gaze to Harry, bringing the stack of papers Harry had copied out on his desk. "You've been a good little spy for giving this report to me."

Harry's good mood started to deteriorate rapidly. "So I'm done."

Neville ignored him, grabbing Hermione's hand again and looking at her in the eye. "I admit I had some reservations, but this intelligent witch here convinced me you would dance to my tune. And be thankful to her, Harry, I had planned on simply exposing you and getting rid of another PPB supporter."

Hermione grinned back like an enamored puppy, seemingly totally engrossed by her former housemate. Harry could scarcely believe it. She blamed him for Ron's death and moved on to like Neville? The man was married too – it wasn't at all like Hermione to act in such a manner.

But this wasn't his Hermione. He had to remind himself, like he did for everyone else in this world – they were not the same people. Time had changed them, and for most, it had been for the worst.

"And what a dance," Harry said darkly, "I've given you everything you've asked for. If you don't have any more gloating to do, I'll be on my way. Some of us have legitimate work to do."

Neville squeezed Hermione's hand once more before turning his full attention back to him. Harry noticed a wedding band on her ring finger as his hands returned to the desk. It matched Neville's own.

He smirked sardonically. "Legitimate work, of course. My wife and I will be looking forward to your groveling today."

--

Noon found Harry standing in front of a gathering crowd before a large dais. The newly created platform sat in front of the marble steps of Gringotts, in the most popular locale of Diagon Alley. Curious witches and wizards in heavy winter garb gathered around the event, taking a break from their routine shopping to investigate. The press began arriving moments later with sharp cracks.

"If father waits any longer there won't be anyone alive left to present you to," Daphne muttered, huddling closer to his side.

Harry spared a cautious glance around him before tapping himself slightly with his wand. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, a slight growl leaving his throat with each try. Daphne pulled her cloak around herself tighter as a frigid wind rolled through the Alley. She glanced at his futile efforts to cast a warming charm on himself and brought out her own wand.

"Here, let me."

She made to cast the spell before Harry slapped her wand away, giving her an irritated look. Closing his eyes for a moment, he gathered his will and spoke the charm out loud, forcibly stressing each syllable. The tip of his wand glowed as the charm spread through his body, spreading warmth and returning feeling to his freezing extremities.

"Mr. Potter!"

Minerva McGonagall strode toward him from the street, a rare smile gracing her otherwise stern features. The current headmistress' newly graying hair was still pulled into the same bun, her cloak and robes the standard black. She hadn't changed much at all.

"Professor!" He called out, moving over to greet the older witch. His desire to meet the woman seemed fulfilled. He had been troubled by the fear he was no longer on good terms with the woman. And if he had been, there remained the problem of getting a reason to visit her in the first place. Headmasters and Headmistresses rarely entertained personal guests without pressing reasons.

McGonagall's lips quirked slightly. "You call me Professor even to this day, Harry. You left Hogwarts almost a decade ago." She clasped her hands around his, shaking it slowly.

"_Minerva_ just doesn't capture you Professor," Harry replied with a grin, "I'm afraid I'll always be a student when I'm around an educator such as yourself."

McGonagall blinked for a moment before giving an approving look. "I have to say, Harry, that's a new explanation I haven't ever heard before. The flattery was a good touch."

"Office life has taught me something then." Harry said. He couldn't leave out the note of regret in his voice.

The older woman didn't fail to notice it. "Life behind a desk is more taxing than it appears. Especially, I'd imagine, for someone with your history. Between us, I think you would have been happier keeping to your work in the muggle world. They're much more sensible. " She smiled faintly, as if remembering something. "How is Hannah? I haven't seen her in years."

Harry's reply caught in his throat as thoughts of his wife swam though his mind. "She's… she's fine, doing well at St. Mungos."

"Such a lovely girl, Harry. She was Pomona's favorite for as long as anyone remembers. If you won't come to Hogwarts, then at least tell her to visit."

"I will, Professor." Harry said after recovering his composure. He didn't want to talk about Hannah any more than necessary. "What brings you here?"

His former Transfiguration teacher smiled sadly, her eyes losing focus as she recalled something. "It was Albus. His portrait, I mean. He's been insisting I pay some attention to politics. Says it's fitting for a Headmistress to pay attention to things outside her castle for once." She looked at him for a few moments before lowering her voice. "He misses you, you know. You're all he talks about. The man's been on the wall for ten years now and it's still his favorite topic. I don't understand why you won't see him."

Harry was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Daphne, who had finally decided to walk over and greet her former Professor.

"Professor McGonagall! How good to see you!" She exclaimed, subtly returning to her position by Harry's side.

"Miss Greengrass, the pleasure's all mine. How is your father?" She had returned to her stiffer demeanor, smiling and nodding at all the right moments. If she had noticed Daphne's close proximity to him she didn't mention it.

"He's very excited about today. He can hardly wait to make the announcement." Daphne said, looking over her shoulder to see the gathering PPB officials on stage. The elder Greengrass hadn't made an appearance yet.

"I'm eager to receive it." McGonagall said, though her tone indicated anything but. She looked back to Harry. "Speaking of receiving, Hagrid wanted to let you know that Hedwig has hatched yet another chick."

"Another?" Harry echoed. He hadn't at all thought about his snowy owl. He remembered entrusting her to Hagrid's care before he started to hunt Voldemort, but hadn't thought about her at all since.

McGonagall seemed amused. "Yes, another. The man was so happy he wanted to send Hedwig herself to tell you. First good news he had for me in such a long time. You've heard of the unicorns being poached, no doubt."

"I wouldn't mind paying her a visit. Well, her and her brood now. How many does she have now?"

The Headmistress shook her head in exasperation. "More than Molly Weasley. Busy as she is, though, I'm sure she'd be happy to see you again. We all would. Hogwarts needs a Potter in its halls every once in awhile, and so far you and Hannah haven't provided us with any."

"As direct as ever, Professor," Harry managed, feeling an alien sense of despair at the very thought. It took him a few moments to realize his former Transfiguration professor was speaking again.

"…found early in my life how easily you could make enemies by thinking yourself and others too clever. Subtleties are lost on too many people. It's best to be straightforward."

"I sense a jab at a certain group of people, Professor." Harry glanced at an amiable looking Daphne, who, ironically, had missed the reference to her father's profession.

The sudden cheering of the crowd drowned out any further conversation. Harry turned to see the platform filling with well dressed members of the PPB. Wizards and witches of all ethnicities stood at the back, each of them representing a certain district of the country written above their heads. As each member stepped to his or her place, people in the crowd roared in support of their local party representative.

Following them was the inner core of the party members, most of them unfamiliar to Harry. He hadn't really met much of the party aside from Daphne and her father. The few others he had met didn't seem to take to him much.

"Why aren't you up there?" Harry asked Daphne, giving her a sidelong glance. She had an almost wistful expression on her face that hardened at his question.

Keeping her eyes on her father, she replied with the barest hint of anger. "He thinks I might do something embarrassing or make him look bad. I'm only fit to be a follower." She seemed to want to go on further, but her mouth closed on its own accord, shutting with an audible click.

He didn't get a chance to prod her further as the man in question appeared on stage, eliciting a wild chant of his surname. The dark haired Undersecretary watched his supporters indulgently, smiling slightly at the cheering. For all of his energy and enthusiasm, he seemed battered and tired, older even. His skin held a deathly pallor, drawn taut over the bones of his face. If he wasn't standing upright and pacing the stage, Harry would have thought the man was inches from the grave.

"Welcome! I bid you all welcome to the next stop of our journey!" His magically enhanced voice echoed across the still growing crowds, reverberating between the shops of the crooked alley.

"The PPB has always prided itself in being a party of the people, a party that remembers it is composed of people like yourselves, and that it serves the interests of us all. Our members range from the noble shopkeepers of this magnificent alley –" a roar of pride met his praise, "– to the hardworking artisans of the proud north!"

He looked at the people, quietly reaffirming the goals of the party while ensnaring attention with hardly a thought. Harry saw that part of the Undersecretary that he remembered in Dumbledore, that ability to exude power and confidence through presence alone.

"And now, we are met with challenges from our opponents. Opponents who say our party is unrealistic, naïve… blind to the dangers of giving you freedom. But we have fathers in our party, mothers of children, brothers and sisters that each have defended their families with magic that would have gotten them locked away. Why is it that the PNRP has almost the support of the entire Law Enforcement community? They don't want to become irrelevant. They want us to weak. They want us powerless, forced to go along with their Ministry decrees and dependent on their protection."

"We have the power of self-defense. Shopkeepers should be able to defend their own stores without fear of prosecution. Why should we wait for Enforcers to do it for us? Why does the Ministry want us to slowly forget this magic we have been blessed with?"

"Of course, not all us have taken this lying down. We aren't not naive. We aren't afraid. To those that charge of us being idealistic, what of that boy who fought a war meant to consume us all? That young man who searched deep inside himself and defeated a Dark Lord with his own wand? He never forgot his magic, his heritage as a wizard. His independence and self-reliance ended the reign of darkness over Britain. He is an example to us all, and living proof of our ideals."

The crowd began talking amongst themselves in interest. Harry supposed that to people of the wizard world, he was a figure lost to history, a hero that had retreated from the public consciousness to the pages of textbooks and memoirs.

"Yes. The _Boy-Who-Lived,_" he said it with a certain smile, "is one of ours. Harry, if you would so kindly come up here…"

Wizards and witches who hadn't heard of Harry Potter in almost a decade broke into a frenzy, wildly looking for the famed hero. He felt himself push through the masses of people, most of which realized his identity and greeted him with delight. Hands brushed across his robes and people shook his hands as he passed.

Along the way he saw awestruck Ministry workers who he recognized as seeing everyday, people who saw the boy-who-lived in the cafeteria but never considered his history or fame. Reporters from several newspapers quickly remembered their purpose and began moving alongside him, floating quills and scrolls floating above them. Not only was it a return of a public persona, but a chance to talk directly to a Ministry official long represented by DMPA liaisons and press secretaries.

"_Mr. Potter, sir, what's motivating your return to public life?"_

"…_any comments on the ongoing investigation?"_

"…_any truth to rumors of an affair between yourself and the DMPA Secretary of Investigative Affairs Daphne Greengrass?"_

At this he stopped and turned around, blood pounding in his ears, ready to confront the reporter and –

Dennis Creevey stood smugly among the masses of reporters trying to get a word out of him. He looked different than his older brother, harder and mature. He saw several faint scars on the side of his face, making his leering grin all the more unpleasant to look at.

"…please allow Mr. Potter to approach the stage, we will answer questions about his reemergence at a later date…"

Paul's voice made him scowl at his assistant's younger brother before he turned and made his way to the stairs on the side of the platform. He chanced a look at the crowd stretching almost a quarter of the way to the Leaky Cauldron, seeing it wild with exuberance. Paul extended his hand in what he supposed was going to be a frontpage moment.

He took Paul's hand and smiled, squeezing the deathly cold hand as cameras engulfed them in a supernova of light. Paul met his eyes, his features set in a perfect smile of confidence and poise. They stood frozen for several moments, waiting for the flashes to dissipate.

The handshake lasted a bit longer than he expected. Finally, Paul brought him closer, wrapping an arm around his back and bringing his hand out to the crowds. He suddenly felt oddly tired.

"Partymembers – I give you _Harry Potter!" _ After waiting for the wild applause to end, he continued. "Harry is joining our ranks today, realizing that the PPB represents everything that he's fought for in his life. But enough from me. Let's hear from the man himself…"

He brought his wand, a longish, light colored instrument, up to Harry's neck, intending to cast the _sonorous_ charm.

But before the wandtip touched his neck, Greengrass' wand went flying into the air, suspended several feet in the air. The crowd suffered the same, with hundreds of wands rocketing into the air and coming to rest far above the reach of their owners.

Paul looked up in unconcerned curiosity at his wand before suddenly looking at Harry, an amused smile on his face. "An anti-apparition and portkey ward is being cast. I believe they mean to interrupt us."

The sound of numerous apparitions around the crowd shocked the already fearful crowd hysteria. Brown, crimson, and dark blue robed wizards appeared at every corner and alley exit, the majority of them appearing around the platform itself.

There were Hit-Wizards, Aurors, and Enforcers among them. They gathered into small groups and entered the crowds, violently pushing people out of the way and checking the identity of every single witch and wizard present.

Neville Longbottom led one group to the stage, accompanied by three thuggish looking Enforcers, one of which was the one that tried to 'accidentally' curse Harry.

"Ladies and Gentleman, please remain calm. It is only my fellow candidate Neville Longbottom of the People's National Reform Party. I'm sure he has a few words for – "

Neville flicked his wand at Paul to dispel the charm, interrupting – "Actually, Greengrass, I'm here as _Senior_ Detective Longbottom to make arrests for the engaging in the Dark Arts, illegal possession of polyjuice, impersonation, conspiracy to murder Ministry officials, and the premeditated murder of 12 of my colleagues."

Paul's _sonorous_ charm seemed to have resisted the attempt by Neville to dispel it. He looked significantly better than before, his skin gaining some color and tone. It seemed as if the challenge had invigorated him. "With what evidence, _Senior Detective?_ You can hardly arrest my party members with mere suspicion," he asked with mild surprise.

Neville smiled thinly back, directing several of his groups to disapparate with the arrested partymembers. "Article 2 of the _Enforcement and Anti-Terror Act_ passed this morning gives the DMPA the ability to detain anyone in the Commonwealth for a period of two weeks without charges. Plenty of time to charge them with something, I think."

Neville gave a sideways look at Harry, who was watching more and more of the crowd be detained and taken away. He then faced the crowd of reporters furiously documenting the events and continued in a formal manner. "And you, Mr. Potter. I don't feel the need to detain you, but I may as well announce that you are under investigation for the mass murder of Ministry officials as Prime Suspect."

Tipping his brown fedora, he hopped off the stage and rejoined his group of Enforcers, directing away more and more of the crowd. Harry turned to stare at the retreating Neville, feeling burning hatred for the betrayal. He couldn't even protest with Paul and the reporters nearby.

Paul stepped up behind him, putting his hand on his shoulder. Harry could only hope the man hadn't realized who exactly was leaking the information to the PNRP. "Don't worry my boy, the man's got nothing. He can't put innocent people in prison. He's got no evidence or grounds for any of this."

Harry looked away. "Depends on whether he's going to play by the rules."

---

Harry found himself in his office, ready to finish his day and find something to fill his time. He had stopped even trying to play the avoidance game with Hannah. It was easier for them both, especially if any of the accusations leveled against him today had reached her ears.

He left the small room, strolling between the bodies and shutting off the lights as he left. In the corner of his eye he saw a lithe figure pressed against the wall. Tonks.

He didn't even bother approaching her. "Come to make sure I don't hide the evidence, Tonks?"

Tonks left the shadows and followed him out of the examination room. "More like to make sure you don't skip the country, Harry." She ran a bit to catch up to his hurried stride, almost bumping into the door when he didn't leave it open for her. "Listen, I don't like this any more than you, but it's my job. I'm an Auror of the Ministry and I've been assigned as security detail. You're not even supposed to know you're being followed."

"Thanks for the heads-up Tonks." Harry scowled, not even turning around. He walked to Colin's desk.

"Don't be like that Harry. Trust me, it could be worse. You're lucky I volunteered for this. Anyone else would have taken the opportunity to roughen you up a little," she said with a note of pleading in her voice.

"Anything for me before I go home?" Harry asked Colin, totally ignoring his minder.

Colin rifled through several stacks of parchment, procuring a small note. "Just this from Daphne."

Harry read it quickly:

_Meet me in Hogsmeade behind Zonko's Joke Shoppe_.

"What's it say?" Tonks asked, trying to get closer. Harry crumpled it and tossed it into the _incendio_ wells they used for confidential paperwork. It disappeared into a flash of fire as soon as it entered.

"Nothing that concerns you." Harry walked up the several flights of stairs and hurried through the DMPA offices. Tonks hovered close behind, trying not to make it obvious she was following him. Harry needed to lose her. He didn't think Daphne would appreciate Tonks following him to Hogsmeade.

He began walking quicker, descending down the staircase to the first floor. Slipping through the masses of people leaving for the day, he ducked slightly and approached one of the lines for the fireplace. He couldn't see Tonks anywhere.

Cutting into line, he ignored the protests behind him and began planning several different floo runs to lose the Auror if she followed. Just as he was about enter the fireplace, an older woman grabbed him out of line and pulled him back towards the Ministry.

He tore away her hand and grabbed his wand, brushing it against the back of the man behind him, whispering a charm used during examinations. He grabbed hold of the wizard just as the man began to cough, bending over in pain and clutching his heart.

"Are you alright sir?" He asked, keeping his eyes on a confused Tonks. "Where does it hurt?"

The man wheezed, his face turning beet red as he gasped for air. "My heart… my heart!"

Harry looked around and announced loudly. "This man is dying, I need help!" He turned back to Tonks. Harry pulled the man up and shoved him toward her. "Auror, this man requires immediate medical attention. He's in no condition to floo – he needs to be apparated straight to St. Mungos!"

As soon as Tonks bent over to catch the falling man, Harry turned around and ran, taking advantage of the surprised crowd to disappear into the fireplace and disappear into the flames.

---

Harry stepped out of the green flames and into the Three Broomstricks, the fire flaring behind him as he brushed off the dust that had accumulated across the several floo trips.

Walking past the bar, he greeted an older looking Madam Rosmerta. What used to be a lovely, busty figure now was a lumpy, tired looking older woman with graying strands of hair in her brown locks. Her clientele hardly looked up at the entrance, somberly nursing their glasses. It was a far cry from his own memories, but he remembered that Hogsmeade only seemed bright and lively during weekend visits by Hogwarts student.

Harry left the bar and let the cold air wash over him, looking at the town around him. Much of it remained the same, with a few additions on the ends of the street. He tried hard to ignore the sight of a crumbling ruin far in the distance, glancing away from the hill he yearned more than anything to return to. But that was another life, another time.

He pulled his cloak around him and walked down the main commercial street of Hogsmeade. Zonko's had closed long ago in his sixth year, and last he heard Joseph Zonko himself had died on an attack against the small magical community in Edinburgh.

He approached the boarded up building, looking for any signs of Daphne. The shop was certainly an odd place to hold a meeting. The color had long faded from its bright orange and blue to dull grey. Harry could barely make out the words 'Zonko' etched onto the twin doors.

As he rounded the building, he saw a figure bound in ropes in the far end of the alley. He recognized the dark hair and pale skin, her features barely visible in the setting sun. Stepping into the shadows he pulled out his wand warily, knowing full well they weren't alone.

Two cloaked apparitions appeared out of the darkness, one of them holding a wand to Daphne's neck. The one closest to Harry pulled back his hood, revealing a mask not-unlike those of Death Eaters. They were cruder, more metallic and angular, as if they were a predecessor to their more refined likeness. Harry recognized them as the Knights of Walpurgis, a splinter group of terrorists mildly proficient in the Dark Arts. Their namesake, the original Knights of Walpurgis, was the early name of Tom Riddle's first followers.

The dark wizards watched him for several moments, standing perfectly still, judging him, gauging him. He tried to ignore Daphne's muffled cries, keeping his attention on the two specters before him. He might have been able fight off one with his bare hands, but a second one…

Harry suddenly heard a dull ringing noise that faded to reveal a sinuous whisper in his ears, one that seemed to repeat itself and increase in intensity. Whatever it was, it seemed to break the spell on the wizards, who snapped to attention and began approaching him. The voice gave one last command before it retreated.

"_Do it. Attack!" _

The farthest Knight brought his wand low, his palm up. Without any incantation at all, he ripped his wand up to the sky, as if cleaving the air in two. The ground in front of him split with a narrow fissure that raced to Harry. A few meters before it hit him, the magic burst out of the ground in the shape of a huge pillar of earth.

Harry threw himself out of the way, pressing himself against the side of Zonko's. The earthen spear caught the edge of his cloak and tore completely through it. Ducking out of the cloak, he barely managed to dodge a pale curse from the closest Knight before the second sent another pillar of earth. This one didn't seek to attack him, however. It joined the first and began blocking off the exit of the alleyway.

Taking advantage of the latter Knight's concentration, he rushed the closer wizard. The figure barely managed to send off a binding spell at his feet before Harry was on him. Ropes bound his ankles and he crashed to the dusty ground of the alley. Before the Knight could gather himself for another curse, Harry reached out for the man's feet and pulled them out beneath him.

The Knight hardly made a noise as he lost his balance and fell to Harry's side. The very last rays of the setting sun disappeared as the alley became totally closed off, plunging them into twilight. Reminded of the second Knight, he pulled himself under the fallen wizard and put him in a chokehold, shielding himself from further attacks.

The second wizard completed his work with a flick of his wand and approached them both, his mask betraying no emotion. Harry gripped the wizard's neck harder as he tried bringing up his wand, feeling the Knight's skin grow cold and clammy under his touch. The other Knight negligently waved his wand and sent them both scattering in opposite directions.

Harry tumbled roughly against the wall, looking up just in time to the bricks of opposing wall ripple and explode into a blocky, serpent-like creature. Harry rolled out of the way as the serpent crashed into the other wall, disappearing into it like water.

Harry jumped to his feet and tried tackling the second Knight like he had the first. Before he could even approach the wizard, the serpent burst out of the wall and crashed into his legs, the shards of brick that acted as teeth tearing into his calf. As soon as it struck, the monstrous being disappearing into the other wall. Sinking to the ground in pain, Harry found himself next to the fallen Knight. What skin showed under the heavy robes was white as chalk; the man was trembling slightly, breathing harshly against the mask. As he began to stir, Harry felt himself get hit with a concussion curse that sent him flying against the back wall. Daphne watched wide-eyed next to him.

The bricks rippled across the walls around him, and he felt, rather than heard the serpent explode out of the wall right above his head. Bricks flew everywhere as the serpent screamed an inhuman sound and disappeared into yet another wall, its tail seamlessly rejoining the masonry.

He shook off his disorientation and began rising to his feet when he was kicked back down. The second Knight stood grimly above him, an apparition of death itself. Harry crushed the stirrings of fear inside him as he saw a wand put mere inches from his face. The wandtip glowed a faint green as the Knight prepared to cast the Killing Curse.

Harry felt the world slow to a crawl around him. Time itself seemed to stretch as he felt his senses pick up on something he hadn't felt since he came to this cursed future – magic. The power long denied to him coursed through the wizard's arm into the wand. The wandtip flared brightly as the Knight spoke for the first time, uttering the incantation of death itself in a deep, baritone voice.

He could hardly see anything in the wash of green. On pure instinct he grabbed the man's hand with both his own, clutching it tight even as the Knight completed the incantation.

A roaring noise filled him, but the flaring, sickly green light seemed to remain where it was. It seemed to dim slightly as the Knight struggled to free himself from Harry's grasp. Slowly but surely the curse began to retreat back into the Knight's wand, its light fading and fading. Harry found himself growing stronger and more alive than ever before, feeling something rush into him that he had been missing for far too long.

The Knight grunted and faltered, and beneath Harry's hands he could feel his skin becoming icy cold. The Killing Curse shrank to a dull pinpoint of light as Harry slowly rose to his feet, still clutching the man's hand. The Knight seemed to have lost any sort of struggle, his body frozen in some sort of stupor. Only his head moved, his eyes following his victim's rise. Harry saw himself bathed in a faint glow in the Knight's reflective mask.

With brief jerk of his hands, Harry broke the wand in half and ripped it out of the wizard's hands, only a faint crackle of magic left. As soon as Harry broke contact with the Knight, the wizard lunged at him. The attack was weak, and Harry overpowered him easily, handily slamming the masked figure into the wall and driving his fist into his side.

Before them, the bricks rumbled and shook. Harry quickly pressed the dazed and disoriented Knight against the center of the rippling waves and stepped to the side.

The serpent impaled its creator and burst through his back. Before it could turn into another wall it crashed to the ground in a shower of broken bricks and dust, the magic sustaining its existence gone with the death of its creator.

Harry breathed heavily for a few moments, staring at the dead Knight before limping his way to the bound Daphne. As soon as he released her bonds she dove into his arms, sobbing almost silently into his chest. He stood there and held her tight as the images of the attack ran through his mind.

Putting his chin on her head, Harry brought up one of his hands and flexed it experimentally. He felt different… more complete. It was almost as if he had –

Instincts burned into him from years of dueling made him push Daphne out of the way and cast a shield charm. The other Knight was on his feet, bent over with his hand against the wall for support. He held his wand out weakly.

Harry hardly thought as he jabbed his wand at the Knight, a faint blur of the air the only warning for the wizard before his arms were completely shattered. The man gave a brief shriek of pain before he fell back toward the ground, groaning pitifully as he tried to crawl away.

Harry strode over, power filling his veins. This was what he had missed. He gazed fondly at his wand before he fell on his haunches and turned the Knight over. The mask hid his fear, but Harry could sense it anyways. He looked deep into the eyeholes and willed himself in, exploring, seeking answers. His abilities had been restored to him, and he was eager to exercise them.

Foreign sounds filled his senses, and he had a brief flash of his own face, speaking harshly to the Knight. In another memory, he heard the same sinuous voice that had filled his ears, directing, ordering him to do something… Before Harry could explore further, he found himself ejected out of the man's mind.

Harry looked at the Knight and saw the mask growing around his head, tightening and clamping around his jaw and squeezing. The wizard inside groaned and screamed pitifully as he was slowly crushed, the eyeholes gone and the small opening for his mouth sealing itself.

"No!" Harry snarled, and grabbed the man, pressing his fingers under the tightening mask. As soon as he made contact with the wizard's skin, the man stopped thrashing, freezing with a short-lived wail. Harry felt himself filled with the same roaring sensation as the magic in his veins flared, growing and filling him further. The mask continued to grow and tighten, completely encircling the wizard's head and crushing his jaw.

Harry's eyes closed as he basked in the sensation. He hardly heard the tortured muffled noises of the Knight, only realizing he had died when the pleasant, roaring feeling ended.

He looked up to see Daphne watching him in the darkness with a sickened, but strangely awed expression. Harry didn't think she realized what had exactly happened, and he wasn't sure he wanted her to know, either. Not until he knew further. He rose to his feet, keeping his eyes on the now almost comically small, bloodied mask. He rolled it over into the shadows to spare her the sight, mindful not to step into the pool of gathering blood.

"Why did they die like that?" He asked her, keeping his voice low and unthreatening. He couldn't bear the thought that she might fear him.

Daphne bit her lip, closing her eyes against the carnage before rambling away an explanation. "It's their way. The magic in their masks senses if their wearer is betraying their identities or the secrets of their organization. It doesn't matter if it's purposeful. If they try to take off their mask… even giving information to the authorities, letting their name slip, veritaserum, legilimency…"

Harry looked sharply into her violet eyes as she mentioned legilimency, watching her flinch at his hardened expression. He hadn't thought she recognized what he did. The magic was beyond obscure, and he didn't know of any other wizard alive capable of it. Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Snape had all taken the knowledge to their graves.

"Alright then. I think we should be leaving. I don't think it would be a good idea for the party if we were to be found with present company, dead _or _alive."

Daphne nodded quickly, apparently eager to change the subject. She fished into her robes for her wand and faced the earthgrown wall keeping them in.

"_Reducto!" _

The burst of reddish force made only a small indentation in the thick outgrowth. Frowning, she steeled herself and muttered a different curse, spewing dust into the air. The magic was slightly stronger, causing sharp spidery cracks to appear all along the surface.

"Here, let me," Harry said with a grin, echoing her offer earlier in the day.

With hardly a flick of his wand, a sharp wave of magic assaulted the wall and collapsed it entirely. They stepped out of the darkness of the alley and into the fading light of dusk. Harry pocketed his wand and grabbed Daphne's hand, helping her over the remains of the barricade.

She settled agreeably against his chest as they stood in the middle of the street, accepting his arms around her shoulders.

Hogwarts Castle sat on top of its hill, its lights reflecting majestically off the lake nearby.


End file.
